


Peaches

by sweet_charmie



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Armie Hammer - Freeform, Charmie, M/M, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-06 09:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15883758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_charmie/pseuds/sweet_charmie
Summary: Timothée is a servant in King Louis’s court, and the new Russian seems to be infatuated with him.





	1. Chapter 1

”There’s a new lord coming to the court,” Pauline began that day. 

Timothée glanced up from his food, the slightly stale bread that was common amongst all servants. ”How do you know?” he asked. 

”Because I saw his carriage enter the grounds,” Pauline said. She served the Queen and was almost always with her, so she knew what was going on outside more than Timothée did. Timothée merely tended to the horses and the new baby foals. ”I think it is the Russian.” 

There had been the talk of a new man joining the French court, and one of the many rumors was that he had come from Moscow to Paris in the King’s favor. Apparently, this Russian was very good friends with the King and Queen. Timothée had not ever heard what his name was or anything about him, but he knew that some foreign blood would be good. ”What is his name?” Timothée asked. 

”Hammer,” Pauline answered. ”Armand.” 

”And his wife?” Timothée asked next. Wives of men in court were always bothersome and a bore, and Timothée wanted to know what he would be dealing with. Of course, the lord and the lady would not stay at Versailles, but they would be there so often that they might as well have taken up a permanent residence. 

”A British woman,” Pauline said. ”I am unsure of her name.” 

”What you have given me is more than enough,” Timothée said and began to mash up a bit of his bread in-between his fingers. His appetite was gone. He knew what a new Lord meant— he would become a servant. The King always issued servants from his own staff for the Lord’s manor, and Timothée knew that he would be put on Lord Hammer’s staff. 

”You suddenly seem ill,” Pauline said and reached out for her younger brother’s forehead. His thick eyebrows were wrinkled together as he thought, and she pressed her hand against his head. ”Is something troubling you?” 

”King Louis will make me a part of Lord Hammer’s staff,” Timothée said. ”I will have to leave you.” 

”Not for long!” Pauline exclaimed. ”It would just be while Lord Hammer is in France! When he goes home to Moscow, you’ll return to the royal staff.” 

”How long will he be here?” Timothée asked. 

”For the summer,” Pauline said. ”Six weeks.” 

Timothée sighed. ”This shall be the longest six weeks of my whole life,” he mumbled and got up from his seat at the table. He carried his plate to the kitchen and dropped it off with the servant’s cook, a wonderful woman named Amira. Amira was fond of Timothée’s youth and claimed that he reminded her of her own son, who was now grown, and she coddled him like a child, giving him extra food at every meal. Timothée was always sure to kiss her hand and give her a hug before departing. 

Timothée was a special boy. He was an Italian-Franco boy, born in the Riveria two years after his sister. His skin was golden during the days of sun and alabaster during the days of snow, and his hair was all thick, dark curls hanging below his ears. He had delicate, downturned eyes that shined a golden-green, framed by soft coal-black eyelashes. A pert nose and ruddy cheeks and a plump, pink mouth completed his face, along with the freckles and moles that came from his French heritage. His Italian mother had gifted him with his hair and skin, and with the stubbornness that many Italians had.

He had come to join the royal staff when he was much younger than eighteen, and he worked in the kitchen with Amira. This was when her fondness for him grew. He was twelve when his mother died, and Amira became his new mother. He still had burns on his hands from learning to cook that blistered up some days, and those were the days that Timothée had to do up his hands with salve and bandages and power on through his duties. He came to tend the animals quickly, and he realized that he preferred animals to humans. The horses looked at him with an earnest look in the dark eyes as he talked to them about his worries in his soft French, his native language. He had only spoken French and Italian for years until his sister had taught him English when he was fifteen. He had picked it up quickly, but rarely spoke it; nobody else knew it or could be bothered to learn it. 

Timothée leaned against Amira’s counter, next to a pile of sliced carrots, and he said, ” _Mi fanno male le mani. Abbiamo qualche salve?_ ” _My hands hurt. Have we any salve?_

Amira glanced at Timothée. ” _No, tesoro_ ,” she said; she was Italian. ” _Devi fare di più. Vai in giardino e prendi le erbe, lo farò per te._ ” _No, darling. You must make more. Go to the garden and fetch the herbs, I will make it for you._

” _Grazie_ ,” Timothée smiled and kissed her cheek. He gathered a basket from the corner of the room that usually housed the day’s crops, and he went out of the door to the garden. 

It was barely halfway through the day yet and the sun was unbearable. Timothée glanced up at the sky and damned the sun for its heat, and he loosened the collar of his shirt so that it hung over his golden shoulder. He knew how improper it was to be that undressed in public where anybody could see him, but he was considered by the servant staff to practically be the prince of Versailles, and he knew that he could talk his way out of trouble. 

He crouched down next to the herbs and tried to remember what went into the salve. Ginger root, St. John’s wort, tumeric. He knew that somewhere Amira had the necessary lavender and peppermint oils, and he could practically smell it already. 

Then, a rough, deep voice: ” _Je ne savais pas que Louis et Marie avaient un fils._ ” _I was not aware that Louis and Marie had a son._

Timothée immediately stood up at the addition of a new person. He examined the man— tall, tan, blond— and he fixed his shirt. Damn. He would be in trouble. ” _Je suis désolé, monsieur_ ,” he whispered. _I’m sorry, sir._ Timothée began to leave the garden and the stranger, but the man took his hand. Timothée hissed in pain and snatched his hand away, and his heart dropped at the man’s blue eyes, full of sorrow. ”My hands ache,” he mumbled in English. 

The man’s smile returned. ”English,” he said in a thick Russian accent. ”How foreign.” 

Russian. This was Lord Hammer. Timothée bowed his head in respect and mumbled ”Your Grace”, but Lord Hammer laid a hand on Timothée’s shoulder. 

”No need for that,” Lord Hammer said. ”Marie’s son never needs to submit to anybody, especially not me.” 

”I am not the Queen’s—” Timothée began, and Lord Hammer snapped his fingers. 

”You are not hers,” he said. ”Because you are Louis’s son. Yes, I see it, the curls and the eyes. You are royalty, my dear prince. Why was I not made aware of your presence? I surely would have brought you gifts as I did for your parents.” 

”I am not royalty, Your Grace,” Timothée said forcefully. 

”Humble,” Lord Hammer said. ”I admire that. How about this: you drop the official title and the ’Your Grace’ business, and I might play along with your little game? No nobility, no status; just two men.” 

”You are assuming that I am things that I am not,” Timothée said and turned back to the garden. He tucked his hair behind his ear and he plucked a sprig of St. John’s wort from the earth. 

”Are you not royalty?” Lord Hammer asked. 

”Far from it,” Timothée admitted. ”I was born to grape farmers in Italy. I am a servant here at Versailles. The King and Queen could not care less if I suddenly disappeared.” 

Timothée expected Lord Hammer to end the conversation and turn away, but he came closer. ”You mean to tell me that a mere commoner can be blessed with such beauty?” he asked. ”How is that possible? Why, I am of nobility, and I look like the arse end of a horse!” 

Timothée snorted. This man was anything but that. Sharp jaw with tan skin, dazzling blue eyes, a big smile, with blond hair. He was much taller than Timothée, and a bit of hair poked out of the neck of his shirt. He was a Russian man if Timothée had ever met one. He was also an attractive man if Timothée had ever met one. 

”You will not deny it?” Lord Hammer asked. ”I look like a horse’s arse?” 

Timothée smiled. ”Only just,” he said, and turned back to his work. ”You really should not bother with me, Your Grace. I am just a servant, I am unimportant.” 

”You are a human,” Lord Hammer said. ”You are worth my time, I assure you.” 

Timothée’s face filled with a pink flush. ”Thank you, Your Grace,” he said softly. ”But I must ask: why even give me the time of day? I am a human, yes, but I also am just a child.” 

Timothée watched as Lord Hammer’s hand smoothed up to Timothée’s wrist and up his arm to his exposed shoulder. ”I told you not to call me that,” he said softly. 

”Call you what?” Timothée asked. ”Your Grace? Lord Hammer, I am just showing respect for—” 

”You are no less important than I am,” the older man said. His mouth was next to Timothée’s ear, and his warm breath sent shivers down Timothée’s spine. ”Never call me either of those things again.” 

”Then what shall I call you?” Timothée asked. 

”My name is Armand,” he said. ”Call me that.” 

Timothée turned his head to better see Armand, and he saw his blue eyes trained on his neck. Timothée glanced at the bronzed hand on his bare shoulder, and he noticed how close their faces were. If he wanted to, he could have leaned forward and kissed him. Timothée whispered, ”This is very inappropriate. I should be going.” 

”Inappropriate how?” Armand asked. His eyes were locked on Timothée’s lips, plump and standing ready for a kiss.

”You have a wife,” Timothée mumbled. ”And anybody could see us.” 

The hand on Timothée’s shoulder skated up to push his curls behind his ear, and Armand’s other hand fell to Timothée’s waist. ”Who has to know?” Armand whispered. 

Timothée pulled himself away from Armand and the intoxicating smell of him. Timothée wanted him, but he was afraid of anybody seeing. Timothée studied Armand, and he finally said, ”Excuse me, Your Grace.” He bowed and turned away, and he escaped back into the servants’ quarters. 

He gave Amira the herbs, and she stopped her work to examine the young boy. His cheeks were bright red and his short was halfway off of his torso, his hair pushed behind his ears. ”Who was out there?” Amira asked in English. ”Was there a lovely young girl?” 

Timothée was breathless. ”I just met Lord Hammer.” 

Armand was still standing outside. The moment he had seen Timothée was a holy moment for him. He could have sworn that the beautiful boy was a prince. He looked so innocent, his shirt hanging off of his thin frame and his hair bouncing along his face. Armand knew that the boy was young, probably barely twenty. His desire was immediate: his body filled with lust and he longed to feel that hidden skin. All he had truly wanted was a kiss, and the boy looked ready to comply. Maybe if Armand had found him inside and not in the garden, he would have gotten what he wanted. He had claimed that he was a servant, but Armand had the hardest time believing that. Born to Italian farmers; nobody could look like a god and be born to farmers. His eyes were burned in Armand’s mind, a startlingly clear golden color. He knew that he had to see this boy again. Maybe at court that night, he would see the boy dressed to his normal status. He could deny it all he wanted, but Armand knew that this boy was the prince of France. If only he had gotten his name. 

-

”Will you be attending court tonight?” Pauline asked. 

Timothée laughed. ”Why would I do that?” he asked. ”I am not accompanying anybody, nor am I invited. I will be down here with Amira, helping her prepare the feast.” 

Pauline pressed a white powder to her nose. As one of the Queen’s attendants, she had to go to court every night. ”The friend that you made,” she said with raised eyebrows. ”Armand, was it? Lord Hammer! He would want you there!” 

Timothée scoffed. ”He only wants to use me,” he said. ”He has a wife, he can use her. Not only that, but we are both men. How improper would that be, for a lord to be seen with a male servant?” 

”Maybe he does not care about the impropriety,” Pauline offered. 

”Is he so clouded with desire that he does not care about his social standing?” Timothée scoffed. ”That is foolishness, and Lord Hammer is not one to be made a fool.” 

There was a gentle knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Amira. She held a creamy white envelope in her hand. ”Timothée, a letter came for you,” she said. ”I assume it is for you.” She offered the envelope to Timothée, and he groaned when he saw who it was addressed to: _the prince of Versailles._

”This is me,” he grumbled. 

”Is it from your lover?” Pauline giggled, and Amira smiled. 

”You have taken a lover?” she asked. 

”No, I have no lover,” Timothée sighed. ”It is that Lord Hammer.” 

He opened the letter and cleared his throat before reading it aloud in a poor imitation of Armand’s accent. ”’ _My dearest: I much enjoyed our conversation today. If you would indulge me, I would like for you to accompany me to court tonight. My wife has fallen ill and she claims that she would love to meet the prince. Why are you hidden? Why was I not told that France had a prince? I would like to continue our conversation from the garden, about how I_ …’” Timothée trailed off. The next words were rather impure, and he was sure that he should not read them aloud. 

”Yes?” Pauline prompted her brother. 

Timothée swallowed thickly. His voice was his own then, shaking as he read. ”’ _About how I long for your body. I long to see that golden breast and to taste your red lips. I long to have someone as beautiful as you in my bed. Imagine that— a prince and a lord. I am making a fool out of myself by even lusting after someone like you, but I cannot hide my desires. I pray to see you tonight. All of my love, Armie_.’” 

Pauline giggled. ”Ooh, Armie!” she exclaimed. ”Brother, he is in love with you!” 

”Sister, he only wants me for my body,” Timothée sighed. ”He said so. Should I go? I feel like he would just end up flirting with me all night.” 

”What would be the harm in that?” Pauline asked. 

”He thinks I am royalty!” Timothée exclaimed. ”I tried telling him that I am just a servant, but he does not believe me! When he finds out that I am a commoner, he will lose interest in me.” 

”And what makes you say that?” Pauline asked. ”Maybe he will like you more. A commoner with your beauty? How rare is that?” 

”I have nothing to wear,” Timothée said. ”Nothing worthy of court.” 

”Write him back and tell him to meet you here,” Pauline said. ”You will not have to worry about being worthy of court.” 

Timothée glanced at the letter, the stiff paper with black ink that still looked wet. It had been several hours since they had met, and Timothée wondered how quickly he wrote the letter. Should he invite Armand— Armie— down there? He was sure that, if he and Armie were alone together for too long, scandalous things would happen. Timothée had no real interest in things like that.

Timothée retrieved a piece of paper, and Pauline hurriedly procured a pen and a well of ink for him. ”’ _Armie_ ,’” he began aloud as he wrote. ”’ _I would love to accept your offer, but, to be frank, I have no interest in you like that. The heat of the day clouded my instincts, but now that night has fallen, I realize what a mistake I would have made. I cannot accompany you to court tonight. I am not a prince, I am nobody of importance. It would be best to forget about me. Sincerely, Timothée._ ’”


	2. Chapter 2

”Listen to this drivel!” Timothée exclaimed. ”’I was disappointed at your response. I wished that we would have been able to continue our conversation. Maybe in the future, we can meet again and continue our talks.’ He speaks as if he was not begging for my body in the last letter!” 

Timothée fell onto the bed and rolled onto his stomach, and he glanced up at Pauline. She sat at the window, watching the night sky. ”What else does it say?” she asked. 

”How he longs for me,” Timothée snuffed. ”Every letter, he longs for me. You realize he’s sent me three letters in two days? I have not responded to any of them, and he keeps sending them! Three letters in a row and he longs for me in every one!” 

”Maybe you should respond to him,” Pauline said. 

”Maybe,” Timothée said. ”Or maybe I should burn the clothes I wore yesterday that he touched.” 

”Finish the letter,” Pauline told him. 

Timothée pushed his hair behind his ear and read more. ”’I wish I could express to you just how beautiful you are. I have never seen a man with your kind of beauty. I can plainly see your French heritage in your face, in your golden eyes and silken hair. Your Italian heritage shows as well in the way that you ignore my letters. That classic Italian stubbornness.’ Good Lord, he is insulting me!” 

”It is just a plea to get you to answer,” Pauline said. ”He means no ill will.” 

”This is trash,” Timothée groaned and crumpled up the letter. ”I bid you good night, sister.” 

”Good night, brother,” Pauline said. She got up from her perch and laid a gentle kiss on Timothée’s forehead, then Timothée left the room. He walked down the dark hallway to his room, and he was quick to light the candles and shut the door.

Timothée laid on the bed and hastily folded the letter back out. He examined it for a moment, looking at the fine fibers and imagining the scratching of the pen tip on the paper, and he pressed it to his nose. It smelled of paper and ink and the unmistakable scent of Armie. He pressed it to his chest and sighed happily, then continued to read it. 

_I wonder if the rest of you is a French man or an Italian man. In my experience, the French surrender and let whomever they are battling take control of every situation. The Italians, however, fight back and assume that they can do whatever they please. It seems as if you are trying to be Italian, but I know that you are a pure Frenchman. I wish to hear you speak French to me one day._  
_All of my love, Armie._

Timothée immediately went and gathered a pen, an inkwell, and a clean sheet of paper. He sat by the window and watched the garden for a long moment, remembering their brief meeting there, and he began to write. 

_Armie,_  
_It should interest you to know that, even though I resemble a Frenchman, I am chiefly an Italian. I do not let people tell me what to do often. I realize the irony of me being a servant and being an Italian. Some Italians are rather good at following orders._  
_What is that to say of Russians then? Do you enjoy giving commands? Do you always assume things about people that may end up ringing false? How do you know that I am like any other Italian that you have met? It seems to me that Russians jump to hasty conclusions. You will have to prove me wrong._  
_I know that tonight is your last night at Versailles, and I hope that we can continue to talk even when you return to your manor in the countryside. There is a chance that I will be put on your staff as a gift from the king, but even then it is not guaranteed that we will be able to speak. I will likely be put on your kitchen staff or made to tend your horses._

Timothée paused, and he looked back out the window. He saw a figure moving about in the moonlight, and his heart leaped as he recognized the tall frame of the Russian. He debated about whether to go out or not— he was undressed and it would take several minutes to become decent again— but he saw his robe on the bed and decided that that was good enough. He just needed to talk to Armie for a short moment. 

Timothée snuck out through the kitchen, tying his robe tightly around him. The air was warm and sticky on his skin, and he pushed his hair out of his face. He approached the peach tree, where he had last seen Armie, and he saw the older man leaning against the trunk of the tree. He had a firm peach in his hand, and he was tossing it up into the air and catching it every few moments. ”There you are,” Armie said in his rough voice. ”I was wondering how long I would have to linger outside your window.” 

”How did you know it was _my_ window?” Timothée asked. 

”I could see you sitting there,” Armie said. ”What were you writing?” He tossed the peach up and caught it in his large hand. 

”A letter,” Timothée said. ”To you.” 

”To me?” Armie chuckled. His dark eyebrows flicked up in mock surprise, and he tossed the peach to his other hand. ”I’m shocked, young prince.” 

Timothée sighed. ”Why were you waiting for me?” he asked. ”It is rather late, and I must be up early tomorrow.” 

”I wanted to speak with you,” Armie said. 

”About what?” 

Armie walked forward towards Timothée, and he pulled the Frenchman into the shadow of the tree. His arm went around Timothée’s waist and pulled him flush against his body, and Armie whispered, ”About an offer.” 

”Of what?” Timothée asked. 

”You agree to join my staff for the summer,” Armie began. ”And I will become your obedient servant. For anything you desire.” 

”That could mean lots of things,” Timothée said. ”Elaborate, _s'il vous plaît_.” 

”I mean…” Armie began. ”You are young. You have many desires that must be nearly bursting out of you. Young Frenchmen are always lustful. I will be there for you, night and day, for you to explore your desires with.” 

Timothée examined the Russian’s face, searching for any sign that he was joking. He couldn’t find any, though, and he sucked in a deep breath. ”Oh,” he said softly. ”And what do you get out of this?” 

”I get to be with you,” Armie said. ”I get to have you. That is enough for me.” 

”And I get…” Timothée began and pressed his fingers into Armie’s chest. ”You.” 

”Provided you want me,” Armie said quickly. 

Timothée looked down at where Armie’s arm was around his waist, and his other hand, occupied by the peach. ”In my letter,” he began. ”I wrote about how I am more Italian than French. I do not follow orders easily.” 

”Are you sure?” Armie asked. He looked down at his own hand, at the peach, and he offered it to Timothée. ”Eat this.” 

”You picked one of Amira’s peaches?” Timothée asked and clicked his tongue several times. ”You will get in trouble for that.” 

”Eat it, will you?” Armie asked. 

”And what does this prove?” Timothée asked. 

”That you are French.” 

Timothée laughed. ”I am an Italian!” he exclaimed. ”I will not eat a Russian’s peach!” 

”That sounds rather impure,” Armie chuckled. ”Did you intend for it to?” 

”No,” Timothée said. ”Good night, Your Grace.” 

Armie pulled Timothée closer, and the younger gasped when he felt the Russian on his leg. He was erect, and he seemed to notice that Timothée now knew. ”Do you see what you do to me?” he whispered. ”When you act contemptuously, I cannot help but imagine you in my bed. Try to tell me that you have not thought the same way.” 

”I have not,” Timothée whispered. ”Your Grace, I am just a boy. I am eighteen. Should you really be thinking of me like this?” 

”Maybe not,” Armie said. ”But I still do. Will you be mad at me?” 

Timothée took the peach from the Russian’s hand and he inspected it. It was a firm thing, a soft orange in the moonlight, void of any scratches or bruises. A virgin’s flesh; did Armie pick this one because it reminded him of Timothée? He pressed his lips together as he thought, and he pulled himself away from Armie. ”Sleep well, Your Grace,” he said as he bowed his head, and he turned and began to walk away. He got into the servant’s apartment and shut the door before he raised the peach to his lips, and he softly kissed the plump fruit. The scent of Armie was on the fruit, and Timothée knew what that meant. He took the peach back to his room and drew the curtains before he held it up to the light, and he saw small clots of white dusting the fuzzy surface. 

Timothée gasped as he laughed. Armie had ejaculated over a fruit. Most likely, he had plucked it from the tree and saw Timothée in it, and he pleasured himself at the sight of the firm roundness. Timothée rolled his eyes and set it down on the windowsill, and he got into bed. 

The next started early for him. He had to get the Hammers’ horses prepared for the journey back to their villa, so he had to wake up to feed them and bathe them. The horses were gorgeous, soft brown coats and shiny black manes and tails. Timothée greeted them softly as they each nibbled at the apple slices he brought them, and he spoke French to the horses. He mostly told them about how presumptuous and bold their master was, and he laughed at the thought of Armie engaging in some frivolous, school-boy act right by his window. 

The sun was coming up as Timothée was brushing out one of the horse’s manes. The horses had a name, he was sure of it, but it was probably something Russian and complicated, so he named one horse Elio, and the other, bigger horse was named Oliver. An Italian and a French name. He was whispering to Elio in Italian about how his master was so good looking but so reckless when an idea came to him. He smiled as he thought about Armie’s reaction, and he placed a soft kiss on the horse’s nose before he went back inside. 

Timothée found the peach still on the windowsill, and he took it and quickly sank his teeth into the soft flesh. Juice dripped out onto his chin, and he wiped it off with his arm.

-

There was a soft knock on the door to the room, and Armie tied his silken robe around his body as he opened the door. A young palace messenger stood there, holding his daily mail. Armie quickly thanked him and took the small package from his hands, and he shut the door quickly. 

He sat down by the window and unwrapped the brown paper from the gift, and he smiled down at the peach with a single bite taken out of it. He knew that Timothée would consent, but this showed how playful he really was. He was playing games with Armie now, teasing him with fruit. 

As he folded the paper back up, a letter fluttered out from the wrappings, and Armie leaned over to pick it up. 

_Dear Armie,_  
_Your turn._

Armie chuckled. What a coltish boy he had chosen. This was teasing at its finest. Was this an invitation to visit Timothée in the servant’s apartment? It was too early for that. He debated seeking Timothée out during the day, but he decided against it. They would be at the villa that night, and everything could be discussed there.

The day passed. The gifted staff was introduced just after breakfast, and Armie smiled warmly at Timothée. The boy looked so youthful with flushed cheeks and wild hair. His shirt was too big on him, and Armie imagined tearing it off and kissing every inch of that skin. 

Armie was delighted when he heard what positions all of the staff would be filling. Timothée was assigned to be his attendant, which meant that Timothée would help him dress and undress in the mornings and at night and he would accompany him to meetings and to court. Timothée would never leave his side. 

The Lady Hammer and her new attendant were in the same carriage as Armie and Timothée, and Armie scowled when he realized that he would have to wait and control himself. Timothée sat across from Armie, his eyes trained down on his book. Armie nudged Timothée’s foot with his own, and he asked, ”What are you reading?” 

” _La Vie de Marianne_ , Your Grace,” Timothée said softly. He kept his eyes down and his voice quiet, playing the part of a respectful servant. In reality, he wanted to sit in Armie’s lap and kiss him all over, but he needed to control himself. 

”Interesting,” Armie said. ”Do you like to read?” 

”Yes, Your Grace,” Timothée mumbled. 

”We have plenty of literature at the villa,” Armie told him. ”You are welcome to it.” 

” _Merci, monsieur_ ,” Timothée said softly. He glanced up at Armie and, upon seeing his icy eyes, smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

The manor was a small villa in the French countryside. It was a rather lengthy carriage ride from Versailles, and Timothée knew that going to Versailles meant having to wake up early to bathe and prepare for the trip. 

The grounds were beautiful. Plentiful flowers everywhere, with gorgeous gardens and nicely trimmed bushes in the front. There was a large tree in the back, and Timothée saw that the manor resided on a lake. A boat was anchored at a small dock at the back. The lake was a clear blue with fish swimming all in it, and Timothée could imagine stripping down and sinking into the water on a hot day like that day. 

That day was scorching hot. Timothée was boiling in his pressed shirt and pants, and one look at Armie showed that he too was suffering. ”Not used to this weather, are you, Your Grace?” Timothée asked. 

”I am used to the Russian weather,” Armie said. His accent was thick that day, his English almost intelligible. ”Even in the summer, it is much cooler than this.” 

”Goodness, it is warm, isn’t it?” Lady Hammer exclaimed. She was a wonderful British woman named Elizabeth, and she was the picture of propriety: tall and pale, hair done up just so, makeup done perfectly, dress firmly ironed and her shoes polished. She carried a small handbag, and she withdrew a silk fan from the bag. She began to wave it in front of her face, and she said, ”Armand, dear, you can take off your coat, if you wish.” 

”That would be rather improper, love,” Armie said and smiled at his wife. ”I am sure that dear Timothée here would mind that.” 

”If it would please Your Grace, I do not mind,” Timothée said quickly. ”I will hold your coat for you.” 

Armie glanced over at Timothée, and he saw the younger’s mischevious smile. ”If you insist,” Armie said with an equally as sly smile, and he began to unbutton his coat. 

”Allow me, Your Grace,” Timothée said, and he moved in front of Armie to undo his jacket. He kept his eyes trained on the small buttons, but he felt Armie’s gaze on his head. Finally, the buttons came undone, and Timothée helped Armie out of it. He folded it up and draped it over his arm, and he assisted Armie in rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. 

”Thank you, Timothée,” Armie said with a smile. 

”If he is representative of the staff that Louis has given us, then we have a good batch,” Elizabeth said, and Timothée smiled. 

”Thank you, Your Grace,” he told her. ”His Majesty is a gracious man. I am very lucky to work for him. And for you, as well.” 

”How did you come to work for him?” Elizabeth asked. ”You are so young, you should be in a university by now.”

”My sister began working at Versaille as a queen’s maid when she was thirteen,” Timothée began. ”She alerted me to the open position on the kitchen staff, and I took it. My parents were struggling to come up with money to send me to university, and I figured that this job would help.” 

”Have you enough money now?” Elizabeth asked. 

”My mother passed when I was twelve,” Timothée said. ”Her funeral took most of the money. At this rate, I will not go to university until I am in my thirties. It is easiest to keep working in His Majesty’s staff.” 

”We have plenty of books here at the manor,” Elizabeth said and laid a gentle hand on Timothée’s shoulder. ”You are welcome to any of them, just as my husband told you. Speaking of my husband, he is a university-educated man. I am sure that he would not mind teaching you a thing or two.” 

”Bah!” Armie cried. ”Timothée is much more educated than me. I have nothing to teach him. If anything, he has much to teach me! Are you responsible for the peach trees at Versailles?” 

Timothée’s heart leaped at the casual mention of the fruit. ”No, Your Grace,” he said. ”That would be Amira, the head cook. She says that those trees have been in the garden for longer than I have been on this earth. She lays claim to those sweet fruits.” 

”They were remarkable,” Armie mused. ”Very firm and full of nectar. She must teach me how to grow something as gorgeous as those.” 

”I will be sure to tell her that,” Timothée said. 

The conversation progressed as they entered the manor. The windows were open and a cool breeze swept through the foyer. Timothée was impressed at the ornate maroon and gold rug that blanketed the stone floor, and he realized that most everything would be very opulent. Things were at a high standard at Versailles, but it was also famous for having poor servant’s quarters. 

Timothée was instructed to go to his quarters and rest until lunch was served; ”I have a meeting that has the potential to run long into the night, and I do not want you falling asleep,” Armie had told him with a little wink. 

The bedroom was far nicer than anything Timothée had ever seen. The walls were white, slightly bleached from the sun coming in from a large window. The bed was fitted with crisp sheets and a wool blanket, but the mere look of it was more than anything Timothée was used to. There was a large armoire in the corner of the room where Timothée’s clothes would go, and, in the other corner, was a metal washtub with a towel and a bar of soap next to it. There was a writing desk directly under the window, and Timothée set his book down on the surface. 

He carefully set all of his clothes in the armoire, then took off his shoes and laid on the bed. The room was hot, almost stifling, and Timothée loosened the tight collar of his shirt. Sweat was starting to collect at the nape of his neck, and he wiped at it with his hand. 

As he laid there, he tried to listen for anybody that might enter the room or disturb him, but he could not hear any threats. Quickly, he undressed down to his underwear, and he loosened the waist so much that he might as well have not even been wearing them. He settled on his stomach, his head on the pillow, and he fell into a quick sleep. 

He dreamt of his sister. He dreamt of his mother. He dreamt of peaches and of Armie. He was firmly asleep for what felt like many hours until a gentle hand rested upon his shoulder. Timothée blearily opened his eyes and saw Armie looking down on him, and he groaned. ”Did I oversleep?” he mumbled and looked out the window. Golden sunlight was still filtering through the window. 

”I just wanted to see you,” Armie said softly. He sat down next to Timothée and caressed his back, and he said, ”You seem like you slept well.” 

”I did,” Timothée said. He adjusted his pants and turned onto his back, and Armie smiled at that perfect body. Golden skin, slightly paler around his hips and legs, a firm chest with small, pink nipples, and soft shoulders. Everything about Timothée suggested that he was a prince and not a servant, but Armie had to accept it. 

Armie tilted his head, and he asked, ”Have you ever been kissed before?” 

”No, Your Grace,” Timothée said softly. He felt ashamed of his answer. 

”You do not have to call me that in private,” Armie said quietly. ”Just my name will do.” 

”Okay,” Timothée replied. ”I have never been kissed.” 

Armie laid his hand on top of Timothée’s and gently laced their fingers together. Armie examined their hands for a moment before lifting Timothée’s hand to his mouth and kissing his fingers. ”Would you want to waste your first kiss on me?” Armie asked. 

Timothée nodded quickly. ”Yes,” he said. ”Well, no. I would not be wasting it.” 

”But I am just an insignificant part of your life,” Armie said. ”This summer will end and you will return to Versailles and forget all about me.” 

”No, I will not do that,” Timothée said quietly. 

Armie moved closer to Timothée. Their legs were fully touching, and it sent shivers up Timothée’s body. ”Armie?” Timothée said softly. ”You are free to do whatever you want to me.” 

Armie looked over Timothée, from his wild curls to his flat stomach and down to his dimpled knees. He let go of Timothée’s hand and placed his hand on Timothée’s leg. His hand skated up his leg, feeling the coarse material of his undergarment, and he finally stopped when he reached Timothée’s hips. ”You would want me to kiss you?” he asked. 

”Yes,” Timothée replied quickly. ” _Embrasse moi, s'il vous plaît_.” 

Armie smiled. ”How can I refuse my perfect Frenchman?” he asked. He leaned forward and kissed Timothée’s neck, and they slowly repositioned as Armie kissed up his throat to his jaw. Timothée laid back down, and Armie shifted to hover over Timothée, propped up on his elbow. Armie kissed Timothée’s jaw, then moved up to his ear and softly bit his earlobe. A shiver ran down Timothée’s spine, and his hands moved up to Armie’s perfect chestnut hair. ”Armie,” he whispered. ”Kiss me, Armie.” 

The response was immediate. Upon telling him, Armie crashed his lips to Timothée’s, kissing him harshly. The kiss instantly slowed down and became more gentle, and Timothée let out a soft moan. His fingers curled in Armie’s hair and he broke the kiss after only a moment. 

”Is something wrong?” Armie asked. 

”No,” Timothée whispered. ”I… Will you lay down with me? Let me finish my nap?” 

Armie smiled and nudged his nose into Timothée’s cheek. ”Anything for you, dearest,” he said. ”One more kiss?” 

Timothée hesitated. He would have loved to kiss Armie again, to keep kissing him and never part for the rest of time, but he was nervous. Nobody had ever wanted him the way that Armie wanted him. It was intimidating, and Timothée was frightened. 

Armie saw his hesitation. ”No more kisses,” he said in finality. ”Do you want me undressed?” 

”Yes,” Timothée said with a quick nod. 

”Will you help me undress?” Armie asked, and a smirk fell over his mouth. ”No, you want to watch me. I know what you want, dearest.” 

Timothée’s mouth became dry as he watched Armie undo his shirt and pull it off. His chest was beautiful, toned and tanned, with a thin dusting of brunette curls. Timothée felt meek; where he was a boy, Armie was a man. Timothée reached forward and took Armie’s hand, and he pulled him close and softly kissed his chest. Armie’s finger trailed down Timothée’s jaw as he set kisses all over his torso, and he looked down at the younger man with adoration heavy in his gaze. 

Armie took Timothée’s chin in his hand and pulled his face up to look at him. His eyes were gleaming olive with golden sunflowers in the middles, his eyes glossy with… _Tears?_ ”Are you crying?” Armie asked softly. 

Timothée sniffled. ”No,” he said, and Armie’s heart fell. 

”Why are you crying?” he asked. He laid down beside Timothée and held him close to his chest, and Timothée heaved delicate sobs. Armie did not pressure him for information; he just sat there and waited for when Timothée was ready. 

Finally, Timothée sniffled again. ”I am nervous,” he whispered. ”Because I know that, one day, you will want more than kisses. I am so frightened of that day.” 

”That day will never arrive if you do not want it to,” Armie told him quickly. ”I want as much as you give to me, and I will not take anything more than that. I swear to you.” 

Timothée pressed his cheek into Armie’s shoulder and wiped his eyes. ”Thank you,” he whispered. ”It is rare that somebody is this understanding with me.” 

”That should be a crime,” Armie said. He rubbed Timothée’s back and kissed the side of his head. ”You are gorgeous, my dearest. Everybody should _worship_ you.”


	4. Chapter 4

The affair was quiet. Timothée did his job as he was directed to, and Armie did not interfere with any of it. They barely spoke, only communicating with lingering glances and seemingly innocuous touches. 

Every night, Timothée sat at his desk, pen poised over a piece of paper. He had so much that he wanted to say to Armie, but he had no chance of piecing together his thoughts enough to make Armie understand. Timothée wanted Armie to know that he cared for him and wanted to be with him but that his fears and past experiences fettered him from doing that. He wanted to tell Armie everything— mainly about his ex-lover— but he was so afraid that Armie would abandon him when he heard. In the end, no letter was ever written. 

What Timothée did not know was that Armie sat by his open window and waited for Timothée to grace his doorway. He knew that Timothée was hesitant, and he wanted to tell Timothée every day not to be afraid of him. Armie would rather die before he caused any harm to Timothée. They had met a week earlier, verging on two weeks, and the silence was tearing Armie apart. When he thought back, he could still feel Timothée’s lips on his, soft and gentle and completely compliant. If Armie had asked him to open his mouth, he would have. The ungentlemanlike part of Armie wished to pin Timothée down and taste his mouth, intensely make love to him until Timothée’s eyes were glossy with tears. Armie knew that he had to control his thoughts, though; it might turn out that Timothée did not want that kind of relationship or, alternatively, might not want Armie at all. That broke Armie’s heart. He wanted Timothée so badly, and he was worried that Timothée had been turned off by him. He thought that letting Timothée come to him was the best choice. 

Two weeks after they met, Timothée was doing up the buttons on Armie’s shirt. He had felt Armie’s eyes on him the whole time, and he sighed. ”I am sorry,” he whispered. This was the first thing that Timothée had said all day. 

”For what?” Armie asked. 

Timothée shrugged. ”Ignoring you,” he said. ”Keeping you on edge. I am trying to figure myself out, and I need time to do that.” 

”Take as much time as you need,” Armie said. ”I would wait an eternity for you.” 

Timothée’s face flushed. ”Please do not say that,” he mumbled. ”That scares me.” 

He gave Armie’s chest two gentle pats as he finished with the buttons, and he began to turn away from him, but Armie hooked a finger in his shirt and turned him back. ”What scares you about it?” he asked. ”Is it the commitment? Because I will be devoted to you, Timothée. Or, rather, I will only use you for what I want and we will not speak otherwise. Whatever you desire.” 

”You scare me,” Timothée mumbled. ”Not scare… Intimidate me. You are a lord, and I am a servant.” 

”It is because of my status?” Armie asked. ”Dearest, put it out of your mind.” 

”That is the difficult part,” Timothée mumbled. ”My old lover…” 

Armie was shocked. ”You had a lover?” he asked. ”But you told me that you are a virgin.” 

”I never told you that,” Timothée said. ”I said that I had never been kissed, which was true, but you assumed the rest of it. My old lover never kissed me; he used me for his own pleasures. I am afraid that… He was quite powerful as well and… I am worried you will treat me the same.” 

”Who did that to you?” Armie asked. His eyes are shaded and burning with indignation, and his left hand curled into a fist in Timothée’s shirt. ”I will kill them. Nobody should treat any person that way, let alone treat you that way.” 

”It does not matter,” Timothée mumbled. 

”Timothée, it does matter,” Armie said firmly. ”This person has made you afraid to be with someone else. Did they threaten you?” 

”No.”

Armie was unconvinced. ”You said he is powerful,” he said. ”Is he a member of the court?” 

”Armie, it truly does not matter—” Timothée began. 

Armie tore his hand from Timothée’s shirt and paced around the room as he spoke. ”I will go mad if I do not know,” he said. ”Some powerful man is threatening you, and I want to make sure you are protected! Timothée, you must tell me—” 

”I cannot tell you!” Timothée sobbed. ”I cannot… Armie. I am not allowed to tell you. That is how I am being threatened. He has paid me off to not tell anybody, and that income is what keeps my father alive. He cannot work anymore and that money is the only reason he has his house. If I tell you and it gets back to him that I told, the money will stop and it will be my fault!” Timothée wiped his face, clearing his cheeks of tears. 

Armie was quiet. He examined Timothée, his saddened state and his wet eyes. His cheeks were flushed and his curls flopped over his forehead. He looked so destroyed at the mention of the control that his ex-lover had over him; he was ashamed of it. ”How often does he pay you?” Armie asked. 

”Once a month,” Timothée said. ”Like a regular paycheck.” 

”And he…” Armie started. ”When did this start?” 

”I was sixteen,” Timothée began. ”Two years ago.” 

”Once a month for two years,” Armie mumbled. ”That is a lot of money, even if the monthly amount is small. He has to be a member of the court.” 

”Please do not try to figure it out,” Timothée said quickly. 

”He has enormous control over you,” Armie started under his breath. His eyebrows furrowed together, and he said, ”It has to be… It cannot… Timothée, were you and—” 

”I said stop!” Timothée cried. 

”With him?” Armie asked. ”Good Lord! Were you being forced?” 

”No!” Timothée cried. ”At first, I was, but I consented! Just stop talking about it—” 

”So you are confirming it?” Armie asked. ”You slept with—” 

”Please do not say it,” Timothée begged. ”And we did not sleep together.” 

”Were you in his bed?” Armie asked urgently. 

”Yes, but—”

”You slept with him!” Armie exclaimed. ”Jesus Christ. Timothée. This breaks my heart. At the start, you were not consenting? You were so young…” He reached out for Timothée, and the younger was drawn to his embrace like a magnet. He smashed his cheek to Armie’s chest and sobbed, and Armie held him tightly. ”Dearest. How did this happen?” 

”I wish to not speak of it,” Timothée hiccuped. ”It only ended less than a year ago.” 

Armie sighed. ”Do you want this to continue?” he asked. ”I will stop this if you want that.” 

”I want it to happen,” Timothée said quickly. ”Though, please understand that there are some things that I refuse to do because of him.” 

Armie nodded. ”Can I know what things?” he asked. 

Timothée was quiet for a long moment, and he whispered, ”I want to see you. When we make love. And I… I cannot have it fast. It must be slow.” 

”Why must it be slow?” Armie asked. ”Are you hurt?” 

”I bled once,” Timothée mumbled. ”I have never felt the same. It hurts to sit and… It has to be slow. I am sorry, but—” 

”I would never, ever hurt you,” Armie said and kissed his curls. ”I do not have to be inside you. We can find other ways to be intimate.”

”I like the sensation of it,” Timothée began. ”But, if it is too fast… I start bleeding again. I have tried with my fingers, and slow is what feels good. Fast hurts and I… I cannot do it.” 

”Slow it is,” Armie decided. 

”And I really must be told when it is happening,” Timothée said. ”I hated when he decided spontaneously because I did not have an opportunity to clean myself and I was mortified the entire time.” 

”It must be planned,” Armie nodded. ”I can accomplish that. When does our first tryst work for your schedule? Tomorrow at midnight?” 

Timothée chuckled. He liked how Armie was acknowledging all of his pain and not downplaying it. Rather, he was giving in to the seriousness but also keeping it lighthearted. He enjoyed how Armie did not make it a big deal. ”Yes, tomorrow at midnight works perfectly.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Will you come to the lake with me?” Armie asked. 

Timothée fastened the button on Armie’s vest, and he shrugged. “If you desire my presence, I will accompany you,” he said simply. “What are we to do at the lake?” 

“Swim,” Armie told him. “Be with each other.” 

“Is tonight at midnight not enough for you?” Timothée asked. ”You must have me at all hours?” 

“If I could, I would have you in my arms every day,” Armie said. “I would never let you go.” 

Timothée was quiet. He still found it hard to believe that Armie was this devoted to him without ever having been in bed with him. All of that would change that night, though. 

The two men went down to the lake after lunch. Timothée sat under the tree and tried to read his book, but he was completely distracted by Armie. He had stripped down to his undergarments, showing off his perfectly fit body, and he was now waist-deep in the water. Timothée saw the fabric cling to his legs, and it became sheer with the wetness. Timothée was intimidated by the sight, and he tried to look away. 

“Do you like what you see, dearest?” Armie chuckled. “Come join me!” 

“Oh, no,” Timothée said. “I prefer to stay dry.” 

Armie waded out of the water and approached Timothée. “May I inquire as to what you are reading?” He asked. Water droplets clung to his stomach, and his undergarments stuck to his legs. Timothée eyed the bulge of manhood between his legs, but he quickly redirected his thoughts. 

“William Shakespeare,” he replied. “ _Romeo and Juliet_.” 

“Ah,” Armie nodded. “‘Her eye in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!’” 

“You have read it,” Timothée said with a smile. 

“Of course I have,” Armie said. “Have you?” 

“Yes,” Timothée said. “It was the first story I read when I learned English.” 

“So you know how it ends,” Armie stated. 

“Rather well, yes.” 

“Then why are you reading it now?” Armie asked. “It is hot and there is cool water. Why are you still clothed? Join me, dearest!” 

Timothée looked past Armie to the lake. The water was clear and looked refreshing, and he laid the book down on the grass. He stood up and began to undress himself, but Armie surged forward and swatted Timothée’s hands away from himself. He smiled as he undid the buttons on Timothée’s pants, then his fingers trailed up to Timothée’s shirt and he untied the collar. “You are beautiful,” Armie whispered, then leaned forward and gently kissed Timothée under his ear. 

Finally, Armie had Timothée undressed, and he swiftly picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. Timothée shrieked and laughed as Armie carried him into the water, and he refused to let go of Timothée. Eventually, Timothée convinced him to put him down, and Armie partially complied. He pulled Timothée from his shoulder but kept him in his embrace. He gently stroked Timothée's cheek with a wet finger, and he softly said, “I cannot wait for tonight.” 

“Likewise,” Timothée nodded. 

Armie pressed their foreheads together and took a deep breath, and he quickly submerged himself underwater. The water was up to Timothée’s stomach, and he let out a soft laugh when Armie’s hands graced his thighs. Under the water, Armie pulled Timothée close to him and pressed his face into Timothée’s groin. Timothée gasped, and his hands plunged beneath the water and took Armie’s hair. 

Armie’s hands moved from his thighs around to his front, where he undid the ties on Timothée’s undergarments. After a moment, Armie re-emerged from the water and kissed Timothée harshly, and Timothée took in a gasp as Armie’s hand pushed into his undergarment. “Wait,” Timothée said quickly, and Armie pulled out of the kiss. “Must we do this now?” 

Armie slowly withdrew his hand from Timothée’s pants. “You are right,” he said. “I lost control of myself. I can wait until tonight.” 

Timothée softly kissed Armie again, and he moved out of his embrace. He did up the ties of his undergarments again, then sank down under the water. Armie watched him for a moment, then smiled when the younger came back up, pushing his wet hair off of his face. The water made his face glisten and it clung to his dark eyelashes, and Armie thought that Timothée was the most gorgeous person that he had ever seen, his wife included. Armie surged forward and wrapped his arms around Timothée, and he kissed his neck. “Dearest,” he whispered. “I love you.” 

“No, you do not,” Timothée said. His hands floated down to cover Armie’s, and he added, “You love the thought of me.” 

“No, no,” Armie said. “I love your supple skin. I love your gracious smile. I love how your eyes crinkle up when you laugh. I love how diligently you do your job. I love when you speak French. I love when your stubborn Italian side comes out. I love you, dearest. Not the thought of you. No, I could love any other boy and be content, but I love my Franco-Italian beauty.” He kissed Timothée’s neck, down to his shoulder, and he softly licked the swell of his shoulder. He wanted to have every inch of Timothée that he could have. He wanted to taste every part of his skin, to show Timothée that he had no flaws and that he loved every single part of him. 

Timothée hummed. “It is hard for me to admit things like this,” he said. “I have never felt this way before. I—” 

“Armie!” A feminine voice called from the house, and Armie quickly let go of Timothée. “What are you doing to him?” 

Armie turned to see his wife. “Wrestling!” He called back. “Timothée has never wrestled before! Raised by women!” 

“Do not hurt him!” Elizabeth called with a smile. 

“Never!” Armie grinned. He retreated from the water and approached Elizabeth, and they began a hushed conversation. 

Timothée watched them from the water. He skimmed his fingers along the surface to act like he was distracted, but he was desperately trying to hear what was being said. He heard whispers of “Tonight?” and Armie cussing, then Elizabeth getting upset with him for using coarse language. Elizabeth ended the conversation with a kiss to Armie’s cheek, and he turned back to go inside. 

Armie pushed his hair off of his face as he made his way back to Timothée. “Tonight…” he began. “We have visitors tonight. Elizabeth’s family has heard that we are here, and they wish to visit. I hate to postpone our… Meeting, but I am afraid that, with the time of dinner, we cannot meet tonight.” 

Timothée nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Tomorrow night?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

-

As Timothée helped Armie dress for dinner, Armie talked to him. “I am not sure if you are aware,” he began. “But I have a reputation. It comes from my father and how harsh he is to his servants, but everybody expects me to be… Frankly, to be rude. I have to have that reputation to be considered to rule back in my home country— people do not have confidence in an unharsh ruler— so, I apologize for whatever I say or do tonight. It is not in ill will, it is to guarantee that my father will continue to speak to me.” He chuckled a bit. 

“Your father sounds like someone I would rather not meet,” Timothée said. A button kept slipping from his fingers; he had been working on it for what felt like hours. His hands were shaking at the thought of seeing Armie as anything other than what he had been towards Timothée. 

“He would not like you,” Armie said. “He does not like people who do not have Russian blood.” 

Timothée scoffed. “That is ridiculous.” He said. 

“My _father_ is ridiculous,” Armie sighed. “He treats me like a dog, someone to train to become a ruler. My brother gets off clean because he is younger than me, so he is not eligible for the throne unless I pass away.” 

“Throne?” Timothée repeated. He dropped the button and held Armie’s gaze. “I did not realize your family had that much power.” 

Armie glanced down at Timothée. “Do you not know my father?” He asked with genuine confusion. Timothée shook his head, and Armie pressed his mouth shut. “Mikhail. The tsar.” 

“You are a prince?” Timothée asked. “I thought that you were just a lord.” 

“In the French court, I am a lord,” Armie said. “We have connections all around Europe, and I am actually part of several different royal courts. In Russia, though, I am _Heir Tsesarevich_. So, yes, a prince, of sorts.” 

Timothée let out a breath. Armie was so much more powerful than he first thought, which made the risks he took even more confusing. He was in line to become the next tsar of Russia, why would he waste his time with a frivolous French servant? “That makes me feel rather special,” Timothée admitted, and attempted the button again. 

Armie lowered his hands and put them on top of Timothée’s. The button was right at Armie’s waistline, and his arms rested easily at that height. “I can do my own buttons, dearest,” he said softly. “Your hands are shaking terribly. Is something the matter?” 

“Nothing is the matter,” Timothée said softly. He crossed the room to the window and threw it open to feel the cool evening air. A small washbin was sitting on the windowsill, and Timothée withdrew the wet cloth from the bowl. He sighed and turned to go back, and he collided straight with Armie’s chest. “I forget how tall you are.” Timothée chuckled breathlessly. 

“There is something wrong,” Armie said with finality. “Does Elizabeth’s family visiting make you miss your own family?” 

“No.” 

“Are you intimidated by me now?” Armie asked. “Please tell me that that is not it.” 

“No,” Timothée lied. He only half-lied. 

“Timothée,” Armie said with an authoritative voice. “Tell me the truth.” 

Timothée grappled with it for a moment. “I do not want to seem as if I am leaning too heavily on the same excuse,” he began. “But I was very young when that relationship began and it has shaped how I think of and react to certain things. I hate having people yell at me. My father yelled at me every day, and my ex-lover was very rude to me. He treated me like absolutely nothing; he treated me no better than mud on the bottom of a shoe. I cannot be treated like that by you.” 

Armie grasped Timothée’s face and kissed him softly. Timothée rose up to better reach him, and he took in a deep breath through his nose. The kiss broke with a wet sound of their lips, and Armie kissed Timothée’s eyelids. “I will not speak to you tonight,” he said. “If I do, it will be in French, so nobody else understands it. If I sound harsh, I apologize, but I will speak kindly.” 

Timothée kissed Armie again. He loved the taste of Armie’s lips, and he couldn’t wait to consummate their love. The thought was frightening, but Timothée trusted Armie with his whole being. He would be okay.


	6. Chapter 6

Elizabeth’s family showed up soon after. Her father and brother were proper English gentlemen, and her mother and sister were very nicely done ladies. Timothée admired the skill of their makeup. He always like the idea of makeup— when he was younger, his mother would put red lipstick on him and have him kiss her cheek, so she could bear his love wherever she went. Timothée had never expressed to anybody how much he desired to try feminine things— the makeup and the dresses and the fabulous hair. It was his secret. 

At the beginning of the night, Armie explained that none of his servants spoke English. That was true, with Timothée being the exception. Timothée stood in the corner of the room, apart from the conversation but still there for when Armie called for him. 

And he called for him a lot. He called for “ _Mon plus cher_ ”, and Timothée came running with a flattered blush in his cheeks. He was always refilling Armie’s goblet with Spanish madeira, or, later in the night, Russian vodka. Armie always thanked him and smiled, and Timothée’s heart melted. His wonderful man was so sweet. 

As Timothée poured the dark red wine into Armie’s goblet, he heard a drunken laugh from behind him. “Armand, this boy is flushed!” Elizabeth’s brother, Nicholas, laughed. “You would think that he is in love with you!” 

This only made Timothée’s face grow more red. He looked down from Armie and to the floor, and he began to retreat. Armie grabbed his shirt, though, and pulled him back. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Armie laughed. “He is French, he falls in love with everybody! It would not surprise me if he _was_ in love with me!” The men laughed, and Timothée had to stand there and take it, pretending like he did not know what they were saying. “He used to serve the King. Can you believe that?” 

“He probably fell in love with him too!” 

Timothée blinked away tears. Why was Armie treating him like this? Was it to fit in with his family, or did the alcohol bring out his true self? Timothée glanced at Armie to try to gauge his mood, and he saw the Russian laughing. He was laughing at him. Timothée was so upset. He wanted to run away from Armie and never speak to him again for as long as he lived. He loved Armie, and this was how he was being treated? Being made fun of? 

Timothée jerked himself away from Armie, and the dark wine splashed up onto him, completely staining his white shirt. He swallowed thickly and let the tears fall as the men laughed at him, and he escaped down to the kitchen. He slammed the bottle of madeira onto the counter and ran to his room. He leaned against the door and cried into his fists, and he hurried to take off his ruined shirt. He sniffled as he went to his washbasin in the corner and began to clean off his chest with the cold water. He cried as he did this. How could Armie be so cruel, even after he promised Timothée that he would be nice? Was it the liquor? Timothée hoped that it was because Armie was drunk and was not thinking about what he said. 

Timothée wiped his nose on his wrist and saw that his pants were also wet with wine. Thankfully, they were dark and it was hard to see the stain, so he just had to wash them. His shirt, though, was white linen, and it was completely ruined. He undressed fully, down to his skin, and he wrapped his robe around himself. 

All of the servants were up in the manor tending to the guests, and Timothée was all alone to warm his water. He held it above the flame for a long time, waiting for it to get hot enough, and he finally deemed it good enough, and he carried it to his room and filled the washbasin with it. He made sure that the door was completely closed, and he sank down into the water. 

His nakedness brought out his sadness again. That night was supposed to be a lovely night, a night where Armie showed him how much he loved him. Instead, it showed how Armie treated everybody else. Timothée was not special; that night, he could not afford to be special. He was a secret, and that was all that he would ever be. He began to cry again, and he sank under the water to keep his tears hidden. 

He came back up and smoothed back his wet curls, but his tears were still there. He grabbed the small sliver of soap from next to the washbasin and began to wash his hair and his body, clearing it of the smell of the fermented wine, and he jumped at the soft tapping on his door. “Timothée?” Armie’s voice came. “Are you decent?” 

“No,” Timothée said. “Does it matter? Apparently, the French are never decent, going around and falling in love with every person they look at.” 

“You know I did not mean that,” Armie sighed. “I could not defend you, dearest. I had to go along with it.” 

Timothée did not answer. He sniffled and ran his fingers through his soapy hair, and he said, “Please go away.” 

“May I come in?” Armie asked. 

“No!” Timothée cried. “Leave me alone.” 

There was silence as Timothée rinsed his hair. He assumed that Armie had done as Timothée had asked and left, and he got out of the bath and laid naked on his bed. He sniffled again, his heart breaking all over as he thought about how cruel all of his lovers had been, and the door creaked open. Timothée gasped and pulled the wool blanket up over his body, and he saw Armie standing there. The two were silent as Armie studied the naked man before him, trying to stay decent with a blanket. His hair was damp and pushed away from his face, and his eyes and nose were red from crying. It made Armie feel worse. 

Armie went and sat down on the edge of the bed, and he continued to examine him. Timothée looked so scared of him. Was it like this with his old lover? Constantly scared and fearful of when the next barrage of insults would be? “Dearest,” he whispered. “I love you to the ends of this earth. You do know that, yes?” 

“You show it in a very peculiar way,” Timothée shot back. “Leave me to get dressed.” 

Armie frowned. “Timothée, how can I make this up to you?” He asked. “I despise seeing you this upset.” 

Timothée sniffled weakly. He reached out for Armie, and the Russian obeyed, hugging Timothée tightly. “I will never treat you the way he did,” Armie whispered. “I swear to you. I will be loyal and I will defend your honor.” 

Timothée shifted so he could see Armie’s face, and he carefully leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft and gentle, Armie’s mouth tasting of wine, and Timothée curled his fingers in his honey-blond hair. He wanted Armie to stay with him all night, to never leave his side. He wanted to kiss him all night and hold him; he wanted Armie to be his. The kiss broke, and Timothée pressed his cheek against Armie’s. “I wanted to tell you at the lake,” he whispered. “But we got interrupted. I…” He paused and kissed Armie again. “ _Je t’aime_ , Armand.” 

Armie smiled gently and kissed Timothée's chin. _“Ya lyublyu tebya_ ,” he whispered back. “Timothée.”

-

Timothée was awoken by the sound of birds chirping outside his window. It was already a gorgeous day, even though the sun had barely risen, but Timothée knew the day would be good because of who was in bed with him. 

Armie laid beside him, one arm around Timothée’s chest and the other holding a book above his head. His hair was tousled, his face was in need of a shave, and he was completely naked. Timothée could feel his warm skin on every part of him, and he was thankful that Armie had stayed. Timothée groaned softly, and Armie lowered the book and closed it. “Good morning, dearest,” Armie whispered. His voice was scratchy and deep, his accent thick. Usually, his accent only showed itself on bigger words, but, in the morning, it was heavy on every single word. “How did you sleep?” 

Timothée rubbed his eyes with his fists. “Good,” he answered. “Did you sleep at all?” 

“No,” Armie said. “I was listening to you as you slept. You talk when you sleep; did you know that?” 

“What was I saying?” Timothée asked. 

Armie chuckled. “You dreamt of me,” he said. “You kept saying my name. Do you remember your dream?” 

“No,” Timothée mumbled. He shifted in bed, letting the bedsheets rub against his legs, and he blanched when he felt a wet spot. Had he dreamt of Armie like _that_? “Oh.” 

“So you _do_ remember,” Armie chuckled. He moved to fully embrace Timothée, and one hand fell down to Timothée’s waist. He rubbed the skin of his hip for a moment, then wrapped his thin fingers around Timothée’s cock. “What happened?” 

Flashes of the dream sped through Timothée’s mind as soon as Armie touched him. “Y-You…” Timothée stammered. “You were touching me.” 

“Just like this?” Armie whispered, and his thumb nudged the head of Timothée’s cock. 

“Yes,” Timothée gasped. “Y-Your hand was moving—” 

Armie removed his hand and raised it to Timothée’s mouth, and Timothée obediently licked his palm. He knew what to do. Armie put his hand back where it was before, and he began to move it slowly. Timothée breathed heavily and shifted to give Armie better access to him. “What else?” Armie whispered, and he began to kiss Timothée's neck. He wanted to leave dark marks all over his smooth skin. Armie wanted to mark him as his own. 

“I…” Timothée began. “Armie, I— _Ah_.” 

“You seem like you have something to say,” Armie whispered. “Tell me what you want, dearest.” 

Timothée squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck me,” he whispered. “Armie, please.” 

Armie’s hand fell away. “You have never said that,” he whispered. “Such bad language, dearest.” 

“Armie!” Timothée whined. “Please. Armie, _s'il te plait, je t'aime, montre moi que tu m'aimes_.” _Please, I love you, show me that you love me._

Armie chuckled. He had learned a variety of languages from his father as he grew up. He needed the skills as a leader of a country and an empire so he could communicate with his allies. He knew English, French, Spanish, and Italian, as well as his native Russian. He knew what Timothée had asked of him. He adored when Timothée spoke French. It reminded him of just his special his boy was. “My dearest,” he whispered. “What else happened in your dream?” 

“Keep touching me,” Timothée whispered. 

“What else happened?” Armie pressed on. “Was I inside you?” 

“Yes.” 

Armie kissed Timothée’s neck, and he turned him onto his back. Armie continued to kiss his neck as his hands took hold on Timothée’s thighs. Timothée knew what Armie wanted, and he opened his legs around Armie’s naked waist. Timothée rested his hand on Armie’s cheek and gazed deep into his eyes, trying to see every inch of his soul. Timothée was breathing deeply, just waiting and waiting for Armie to do what he wanted, and Armie brushed a wild curl from his forehead. They breathed together for a few long moments, until Timothée rested his hand on Armie’s chest, just over his heart. “How are you so calm?” He whispered. “I am terrified.” 

“Of what?” Armie asked. 

“Of you getting a taste of me and treating me terribly,” Timothée said. “My old lover—” 

“Say his name, dearest,” Armie said. “The way you never say his name makes you even more afraid of him. Names have power, and the ones we give to other people are more powerful than our own.” 

Timothée swallowed thickly. “Louis,” he whispered. “Did not care for me. I am scared that you…” 

“Louis is a fool,” Armie said sharply. “He is a fool and he is stupid to mistreat you. I will never treat you that way.” 

Timothée nodded carefully. “Do you want to do this now?” He asked. “Because I do.” 

Armie kissed Timothée’s lips once, then twice, then he took his face in his hands and kissed him a third time. “I do,” Armie said against Timothée’s lips. 

Timothée’s heart jumped into his throat, and he let out a giggle. “You asked if I was Italian,” he began. “Do you remember? You claimed that Frenchmen submitted and Italians fought back.” 

“I remember,” Armie said. “And you said that Russians make assumptions.” 

“I did say that,” Timothée proclaimed with a smile. “But your assumption was true. I am a Frenchman. I fall in love with everybody I meet, and I submit. You may do whatever you please.” 

Armie kissed Timothée again, and he took a deep breath and took a hold on Timothée’s left leg. He trailed his kisses down Timothée’s body to underneath the covers, and he kissed the space where his thigh met his groin. Timothée shifted suddenly at the shock of pleasure of Armie’s tongue, and he gasped when Armie took him into his mouth. 

Timothée could not focus on anything other than the warm wetness of Armie’s mouth. The sounds were muffled by the blankets, thankfully. Timothée let out a soft yelp at the addition of Armie’s finger pressing against his hole. “Armie,” Timothée whispered. “Fuck, Armie.” 

There was then a sharp knocking on the closed bedroom door. “Timothée!” A stern woman’s voice called. “It is nearly nine in the morning! Wake up and go get His Grace dressed!” 

“ _Oui, madame!_ ” Timothée called. His voice shook as he yelled, and Armie chuckled. Timothée was panicked as he listened to the sound of shoes retreating, and Armie pushed his head up to lay on Timothée’s stomach. 

“Calm down, dearest,” Armie whispered and comfortingly rubbed Timothée’s waist. “It will be okay.” 

“How will you get back upstairs?” Timothée hissed. 

“I will find a way,” Armie said. He softly kissed Timothée’s stomach, then added, “Postpone this meeting for tonight?” 

“Yes,” Timothée nodded. “Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep promising 'tonight' whoops :)  
> <3


	7. Chapter 7

Timothée got a letter that day. His heart sank as he recognized the handwriting, and his hands began to shake. Had Louis found out? Why was he sending him a letter? 

Timothée sat down in the study, the room he was in when he received the letter. Armie sat, doing his work, and he noticed that Timothée was suddenly distraught. “Dearest?” He asked. “What ails you?” 

“I have a letter,” he began softly. “From Louis.” 

“What does it say?” Armie asked. He put down his pen and pushed his chair away from his desk. He was sure that Timothée would come to him, wanting his embrace, but Timothée stayed on his perch at the window. He liked sitting on the settee next to the window and reading, feeling the tufted velvet against his fingers as he read Shakespeare. It became his designated spot. 

Timothée ripped the envelope open, and he unfolded the letter. “‘Dear Timothée’,” He began. “‘I have never expressed this to anybody. Not to my father when he was away during my childhood, not when my wife goes to visit family. I miss you. I miss the taste of your gentle skin, the feeling of your silken hair against my neck. I desire to have you back in my bed by the end of’…” Timothée’s face whitened. “‘The end of the week. Retire from the Hammers and come back to Versailles. I need to feel your body again. If you return my letter quickly, there will be a hefty reward for you. I dreamt of the last time we met—’” Timothée stopped abruptly. He sucked in a heavy breath, and he whispered, “‘I dreamt of how easily the corset fit on your body. I dreamt of the rouge on your cheeks and the color on your lips. I wish to experience that all again. Louis.’” 

Timothée drew in a quick gasp, and he sobbed. He placed the letter next to him and buried his face in his hands, and he cried. He heard Armie’s chair creak as he stood up, and the wooden floorboards cracked as he walked. Finally, Armie settled down next to Timothée and hugged him tightly, and he smoothed the curls down. Timothée turned and sobbed into Armie’s chest, and he whispered, “I must leave by the end of the week! Armie, tomorrow is Saturday, I must leave in two days!” 

“No, no,” Armie said. “You will be here for the rest of the summer. I will take you back to Moscow and you can take an oath to be my mistress. You will be treated as if you are royalty. Dearest, you are staying here with me.” 

“But Louis—” Timothée began. 

Armie grunted and stood up. “Fuck him!” He yelled, and Timothée jumped away. Armie has said that word in pleasure before, but never in anger. “He is threatening you! He is manipulating you, and he is keeping you in fear! That should be illegal! You are an innocent man and he is threatening you and your family!” 

Timothée was shaking. He was terrified of Armie’s anger, but also at the thought that he would have to go back to Louis. “Please stop yelling,” Timothée whispered. “Armie, I-I have to go back. I cannot stay here—” 

“I can give your father money,” Armie said. “I can pay for his house and his food. You will no longer have to be dependent on that scummy little man.” 

“That is not the only problem,” Timothée said. “He could say that I am committing treason by not following the orders he gives me. I could be whipped or… Or worse.” 

“He would not do that,” Armie said softly. “Would he?” 

“He could,” Timothée replied. “If he wanted to. I cannot go to Russia with you. I do not know the language, and I do not have the resources to live in a completely different place where I have no family. I have to go back to Versailles.” 

Armie sighed. He glanced around the study, then went back to his desk. “I originally bought these for Elizabeth,” he began and opened a drawer of his desk. “But, all things considered… They are yours.” 

Armie revealed a velvet cloth from his desk and brought it over to Timothée. He gave it to Timothée, and he watched as the younger unfolded the cloth to reveal a heavy golden necklace decorated with diamonds and rubies. There was a small matching bracelet, with a delicate A.H engraved into the gold. Timothée gasped and covered his mouth, and he looked up at Armie with his glossy eyes. “Armie,” he whispered. “These must have cost a fortune. I cannot take them!” 

Armie kneeled down to match Timothée’s height, and he took the necklace and wrapped it around his neck. It was very heavy, and Timothée began to ask the question. Armie beat him to it, though: “Real gold. Real diamonds. Real rubies. Only the best for my lover.” 

Once the necklace was secured, Armie put the bracelet on Timothée’s left wrist. He kissed the back of his hand and each finger when he was finished, and he turned Timothée toward the window. “Look at that,” Armie whispered as the sun caught the jewels. They sparkled, and Timothée smiled as he wiped away his tears. “Now you look like a real prince.” 

Armie pushed Timothée’s hair to the side and began to kiss his neck. Timothée closed his eyes and tilted his head so that Armie could kiss him better, and Armie’s hands snaked around and started to undo Timothée’s shirt. Timothée reached out and braced his hands on the windowsill, and he helped Armie undress him. Armie’s hand traveled from up his waist to his chest where he brushed Timothée’s pink nipples. They became hard in a moment, and Timothée opened his mouth and moaned softly. “Armie,” he whispered. “Make love to me.” 

“No, no,” Armie whispered. “Now is not the time. It will be special and meaningful.” He paused for a long moment, then whispered, “Become my mistress. Move to Russia with me. You will never have to worry about anything ever again. You will have nice clothes, good food, whatever literature you desire. You will be my king.” 

“You would be the king,” Timothée said. “I would be the prince.” 

“No,” Armie said. “I might become the tsar, but you will always be my king.” 

Timothée nodded, and he turned in Armie’s embrace to face him. He kissed him, his hands resting on Armie’s chest, and Armie smiled. “Is that a yes?” He asked. “I must have your explicit consent for you to become my royal mistress.” 

“Yes,” Timothée gasped. “Yes, that is a yes.”

-

_Dear Pauline,_  
 _My dear sister. I feel as if you should be the first to know of my new relationship and why I will not be returning to Versailles at the end of this six weeks. I have taken a lover here at the Hammer manor: His Grace and Heir Apparent Armand Hammer. The affair began at Versailles, but it has blossomed during my time here. I agreed to be his royal mistress. At the end of the summer, we will return to Moscow, where I will sign the official papers that label me as his._  
 _Armand loves me. He tells me every day and, not only that, he shows me. He bought expensive jewelry and gave it to me, and he lets me sleep in his bed. Armand is a better lover than His Majesty in every way. He is caring and he makes me laugh. He keeps me well fed— I am gaining weight. Can you imagine that? I am forever by his side, and he makes sure that I have everything I want. He is very sweet to me._  
 _Please know that I am not intentionally abandoning you and the staff at Versailles. I suffer there because of Louis’s constant influence, and, when I live with Armand, I do not fear Louis. Louis is very far from my mind most of the time, in fact. With Armand, I do not worry. I know that he will protect me and do whatever he can to help me. He says that he will help Father with the money, and he even extended an invitation to you to come work for us in Moscow so that we will be together. Please accept the offer._  
 _I love you dearly, and I cannot wait for us to be reunited. You would like Armand, and I am sure that he would adore you as well._  
 _All of my love,_  
 _Timothée._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for 2k reads! <3

After dinner on Sunday, the men took to sit outside below the tree at the lakeside. The moonlight was enough for them to see each other, and Armie smiled down at his bookworm. Timothée had his nose fully stuck into the spine of _The Prince_ , a book that Armie had read in an effort to learn how to become a better leader. In truth, he was terrified of the day that his father passed and he became the ruler. The Russian empire was extensive and Armie doubted his abilities to rule. He had read Machiavelli in an attempt to give himself more confidence, but he had finished the book with dread in his stomach. He knew that he could never reach the expectations that his empire held for him. 

“Have you written back to Louis yet?” Armie asked. 

Timothée shook his head. “I will write the letter tonight,” he said. 

“What will the letter say?” Armie asked. 

“That I am becoming your royal mistress,” Timothée said. “That I am obviously not returning at the end of the week or at the end of the summer.” 

“Good,” Armie said softly. Timothée was laid out next to Armie, his head in Armie’s lap as he read, and Armie twisted his fingers into the soft brown curls. 

“He will probably be angry,” Timothée added. 

“Probably,” Armie replied. “But it will be okay.” 

“How do you know?” Timothée asked. He looked up from his book to Armie, and he found him staring out at the lake, absently brushing through his hair. 

“Because I will do everything in my power to keep you and protect you,” Armie said. “I will wage one hundred wars to protect you and your honor.” 

“What honor?” Timothée scoffed. “I am not a virgin, and I will never be married. I have no honor.” 

“But you are still pure,” Armie said. “You are still kind and intelligent… We could abstain until we get married.” 

“Men cannot get married, darling,” Timothée chuckled. 

“When I become tsar, I will be the head of the church,” Armie said. “I can change the doctrine in any way I see fit. I can change it to accept us and allow us to get married.” 

“But that could be years away,” Timothée said. “You would abstain for years in hope that you can change something that most likely will not be accepted anywhere?” 

“If it protected your honor, I would,” Armie said simply. 

“But royal mistresses have to please their masters in order to truly claim their title,” Timothée said. “I must do that to maintain my end of the bargain.” 

“Who has to know what you do and don’t do?” Armie asked. “You could say that you do, but in actuality, abstain.” 

“If I do that, I will not be able to wear white at our wedding,” Timothée said. 

Armie thought for a moment, then said, “I can change what the papers say. You can be my lover but not my sexual partner.” 

“You are changing an awful lot to make me fit in,” Timothée said. 

“If it means that I can marry you, then it will be worth it,” Armie said. “I can imagine it already: you in a gorgeous white outfit, flowers in your hair, a virgin’s flush on your cheeks.” He paused and looked at Timothée’s flat stomach, hidden by his shirt, and he gently began to rub his stomach. “It is a shame that you cannot carry my love in your belly.” 

Timothée had thought of this. He could not give Armie a child. No matter how much Armie loved him, he would always be dependent on Elizabeth for an heir. Timothée rested his hand on top of Armie’s, and he said, “We are supposed to simply forget about my past relationship? It is because of him that I am not a virgin. I cannot wear white on my wedding day because of Louis.” 

Armie readjusted Timothée’s head in his lap to better look at him, and he said, “To admit that he took your honor and virginity would require Louis telling his country that he had relations with a young boy. If you wore white, nobody could dispute it. I was your first kiss— I can be your first everything.” 

Timothée shifted to sit up, and he kissed Armie gently. “You are to tell the lie that I am a virgin?” 

“It is not a lie, dearest,” Armie told him. He pushed the wild curls off of Timothée’s forehead, and he kissed him again. “And who is he to argue about your honor? Who is anybody to argue about a bride’s honor?” 

Timothée kissed Armie quickly, then reopened his book. “I will sign the papers to say that I am your royal mistress,” he said. “But… You will need a divorce.” 

“The church already allows that,” Armie said. “I can get a divorce, then we will get engaged.” He paused for a long moment, looking at the beautiful boy next to him, reading by the silver moonlight, and he focused on the shadows that were cast around his face by his nose and eyelashes. Timothée truly was the most beautiful man that Armie had ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on, and he was thrilled at the thought of a possible marriage. “Would you want a ring with rubies and diamonds, to match your necklace and bracelet?” 

Timothée faintly touched his fingertips to the necklace, hidden beneath the folds of his shirt. “No,” he said. “Because, if I get a new necklace, it will not match. Just a diamond is alright.” 

“Do you anticipate a new necklace?” Armie chuckled. 

“Not anytime soon,” Timothée said smoothly. “But you have always taken care of me. I anticipate lots of gifts during our courtship.” 

Armie smiled and buried his face in Timothée’s hair. “Darling boy,” he whispered. “You are right to expect gifts. In fact, a gift came for you today.” 

“Really?” Timothée asked, and looked up from his book. “What is it?” 

“You expressed to me several days ago how much you missed Amira’s fruit,” Armie said. “Do you remember? I sent for a collection of her best fruit. It sits in the kitchen now, awaiting you.” 

Timothée smiled. “I love you,” he said, and he kissed Armie quickly. “Thank you, Armie. This means so much to me.” 

“I will do anything to see that smile,” Armie said, and he gently touched Timothée’s bottom lip. He leaned forward and kissed Timothée again. 

Then: “Armand!”

-

Timothée could not even look at Elizabeth. She was in her nightgown, her hair down, completely undone. She obviously had not expected to find her husband kissing his servant. They all sat in the study, Timothée in Armie’s embrace, Elizabeth standing scandalized by the window. “Does this marriage mean nothing to you?” Elizabeth asked Armie. “Was it just a way to weasel your way into the British court?”

“Elizabeth—” Armie sighed. 

“Stop embracing him!” She cried. “Do you love me? Did you ever love me?” 

“I did, Elizabeth,” Armie said. “But Timothée is not the exception; you are. My whole life, I have been attracted to men. I never thought that I could love a woman the way I loved you. But Timothée came, and he is the ultimate love of my life.” 

“I am assuming that you do not want children, then,” Elizabeth snapped. “Because that boy cannot give you an heir! He cannot give you children! Why are you with him?” 

“I love him,” Armie said firmly. “I love him more than you. I married you to have the possibility of children. My brother can have children; I do not have to bear a child. With Timothée, I…” He sighed. “I just feel different with him. I love him.” 

“You once said the same of me,” Elizabeth said. “What happens when you find someone younger than him, prettier than him? Will you have an affair and leave him, like you are with me? You used to think that I was the most beautiful woman; that I was the love of your life. What will happen when you find someone better?” 

Timothée looked at Armie. He laid awake at night, thinking about the same thing. What would happen if Armie met someone new? He was afraid of being forgotten and dropped— divorced. 

“There is nobody better,” Armie said. “It is him, for the rest of my life.” 

“Timothée, leave us,” Elizabeth said quickly. 

Timothée knew better than to argue with a scorned wife. He moved out of Armie’s grasp and respectfully bowed, then he left the room. He started to go downstairs to his room, but he stood at the closed door, listening for the conversation. He was disappointed to hear that the voices were too muffled, and he sulked down to his room. He felt terrible being caught. He got invested in the romance and the promise of marriage, and he did not even think about how he was breaking up the marriage of the daughter of a prominent British politician and a Russian aristocrat. What would his father think of this? He knew that he had to stop being with Armie. 

Timothée stood in front of the window of his room, examining himself in the reflection. The necklace glittered in the candlelight, and sadness filled him. The gift was meant for Elizabeth. Timothée felt like such a traitor. He carefully removed the necklace and set it down on the desk, and he began to remove the bracelet, but he stopped. A.H. He considered keeping it on, having one last reminder of Armie’s love, but he remembered that the bracelet was Elizabeth’s as well. He undid the clasp and set it next to the necklace, and he realized just how heavy the necklace was, with its gold and gemstones. His neck felt barren, his chest too open. It felt wrong not to wear them. 

Timothée wrapped the jewelry in a soft cloth, and he made his way back upstairs to the main house. He made his way to the study, hoping that Armie and Elizabeth had relocated their fight, but he stopped dead when he heard it. Moaning. His heart stopped, and the cloth slipped from his hands. The jewelry clattered to the floor, diamonds popping out of their place and scattering around, and he covered his mouth with his hand. He felt betrayed, even though it was absurd to think that. Armie was not having an affair with Elizabeth; Elizabeth was his wife, he had every right to make love to her. He was having the affair with Timothée. Their relationship was not even legitimate yet— they had never consummated it. Still, though, it hurt him to hear it. 

Timothée left the broken jewelry on the floor and ran outside. He ran to the tree and clutched it tightly, and he sobbed into the night air. He was such a fool to fall in love with a married man. Unexplainable anger filled him, and he gritted his teeth as he sent a sharp blow to the tree trunk. He had never punched anything or anyone before, so he was not prepared for the pain that rocketed through his whole hand. He heard a terrible pop, and his thumb went numb. He cried harder at the pain, and he held his hand to his chest as he slid down the tree, tearing up his back against the bark. Just hours before, he had sat under the same tree with his lover, talking about getting married. 

He was a fool.


	9. Chapter 9

The ensuing week was difficult for both of them. Armie had gathered the broken jewelry and hid them in a drawer in his bedroom. He knew why it lay shattered on the ground. Timothée had to have heard them. The next day, Armie had tried to engage Timothée in a conversation to explain himself, but Timothée said nothing more than a respective hello and goodbye. By all means, Timothée was just a servant now. He was not meant to become a royal mistress or to marry the future tsar. Armie resigned himself to being with Elizabeth and forgetting about Timothée. 

The fifth week of the summer approached. At that time, the house was beginning to pack up for the respective moves back to Versailles or to Moscow. Armie inquired whether Timothée was returning to Versailles or not, and Timothée answered, “I am going to my father’s house in Italy.” 

“You are not going home?” Armie asked. 

“Versailles was never my home,” Timothée said softly. He hastily finished dressing Armie, then paused to delicately fix Armie’s hair. “Your Grace,” he said, then bowed and left the room. 

Armie was compelled to follow him. “What do you mean by that?” He asked. “Versailles was never your home? You have lived there for seven years.” 

“My home is where my family is,” Timothée said. “And my family is not at Versailles.” 

“Your sister is there—” Armie began. 

“My sister has not returned any of my letters,” Timothée began. He turned to look at Armie, and the older found tears in his eyes. “She hates me. She is not my family.” 

“Why does she hate you?” Armie asked. 

“Because I am a homosexual in a Catholic nation!” Timothée exclaimed. “Blood can only get you so far! I send her letter after letter and I get no answer from her! I have nowhere else to go, so I am going to my home in Italy.” 

“Come to Moscow—”

“What is there for me?” Timothée asked. “I cannot have a professional life there, because I do not know the language or any useful skills, really. The only thing I have if I move to Moscow would be…” He did not have to say it. Armie knew the ellipsis— You. “And you have your wife that you need to focus on. And your country.” 

Armie sighed. “Timothée,” he mumbled. He reached out and took Timothée’s soft hand, and Timothée hissed and yanked his hand away. 

Timothée saw the hurt in Armie’s eyes immediately, because he said, “My hand. My burns hurt and my thumb…”

Armie carefully took Timothée’s hand again, and he saw his knuckles all shredded and bright red, his thumb slightly swollen. The burns on his palm were red as well; his whole hand was agitated. “Come with me,” Armie said, and he pulled Timothée down to the kitchen. He set about retrieving a pot of salve for Timothée, and he layered it onto his palm. Timothée said nothing, but his eyebrows unfurrowed. It obviously helped with the pain. “Let me fetch the physician. We will see what to do with that thumb.” 

Timothée took Armie’s shirt in his good hand. “You have done enough,” he said. He fidgeted with the wrappings on his hand, and he said, “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“Will you send me letters in Italy?” Armie asked. 

Timothée smashed his mouth closed. “Possibly,” He said. “I will have to see.” 

Armie nodded. He was satisfied with that answer. 

They did not speak to each other for the rest of the week. Timothée did his job quietly, and Armie did not badger him to speak. Armie admired Timothée quietly as he would button up his shirt, and he longed to kiss the wild curls once more. One more kiss to those perfect peach lips would sate Armie’s appetites, but he knew that he could never do that. 

Finally, the last day came. Timothée finished dressing Armie, and Armie took his wrist before he could leave. “Thank you for your service, Timothée,” Armie said. “You were a very dutiful attendant.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Timothée said. “And you are welcome.” 

Armie got in one carriage with Elizabeth, and Timothée got in another. Timothée’s looked out the window to try to catch a glimpse of Armie, and, through the window of Armie’s carriage, saw that Elizabeth was kissing him. Timothée sighed and sat down in the corner, wishing that other servants were going to Italy so that he would not be so alone. 

He tried to read _Romeo and Juliet_ during the trip, but every time Romeo said something, Timothée thought of Armie. He quietly sobbed at the loss of love, and his sobbing grew louder when he realized that he had not kissed Armie goodbye. They did not hug or kiss or even shake hands. It was a lingering touch, and that was it. Thinking about it, Armie’s eyes were wide and glossy, almost begging Timothée for a kiss. Timothée looked out the window at the countryside that flew by, and he wished that he had kissed Armie goodbye. 

The trip to Italy took three days. Timothée conversed with the footmen and the driver, and he started to smile again. At least it was somebody to talk to. On the third day, the carriage slowed to a stop, and a footman opened the door for Timothée. “The path is too narrow,” he told him. “You will have to walk.” 

Timothée could smell the grapes and rosemary already, and he thanked the men for taking him that far. Before he left completely, he pet the horses, and he recognized one of the horses as the one he had named in Versailles: Oliver. Timothée bid Oliver farewell with a kiss on his soft nose, and he shouldered his bag and started down the dirt path. 

Timothée listened to the birds and insects chirping. The sun was setting, casting its golden rays through the trees, and he remembered walking down this same path with his mother, skipping along and picking up curious-looking rocks. He smiled briefly at the memory of his mother, then he grew melancholy again. The happiness could only last a brief time. 

Finally, the forest cleared to show a small villa, made of sand-colored stones with a red-clay roof. There was a gorgeous bed of roses in the front, and every window was thrown open. The sound of someone talking quickly in French spilled into the air, and Timothée grew excited at the sound of his father’s voice. He listened to what his father said: “Good Lord, he will be here today! This house is filthy!” 

Timothée approached the wooden door and he softly knocked on it, and there was a quick shout of “Coming!” in his father’s clear French. The door was thrown open, and Timothée smiled at his father. His father’s name was Marc, and he was a gorgeous man of fifty with silver hair and green eyes. He had a slim face and a lithe body; obviously where Timothée got it from. 

“Timothée!” His father exclaimed and hugged his son tightly. Timothée dropped his bag and embraced his father back, and he began to cry. His father smelled of tobacco and wine, and it was such a reminder of the home that he had not been at since he was eleven. Marc smoothed his hand down his son’s long, curly hair, and, in French, he said, “Your hair! It is so long!” 

“I know,” Timothée sniffled. “I have not cut it in months.” 

“You look perfect,” Marc said and pulled out of the hug. He held Timothée’s face in his hands, and he said, “My perfect son. Come inside, tell me of your summer.” 

The house was the same: same couch in the corner. Same piano on the back porch. Same painting of his mother on the wall over the fireplace. Timothée went to the back of the house where he remembered his room being, and he found it cleaned, his bed made up with white sheets and a small fabric dog. It was a toy he had when he was a baby. He remembered it immediately. Timothée set his bag down next to the window, and he looked out at the vineyard. It was the height of grape season, and all of the best wines would be produced then. 

Wine was a big part of Timothée’s life. When his father married his mother, he had received her dowry of her family’s grape farm. Marc had continued its legacy of producing wine. Timothée had grown up drinking wine at dinner with his parents, and he knew a good wine by the smell of it. During his stay with Armie, he had impressed him multiple times over with his knowledge of wine. 

Timothée escaped his room and went back into the parlor where his father sat. He did not sit on the couch; he went out the open patio doors and sat down at the piano. It had been years since he had played, but he remembered a piece. He placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. 

-

“You seem different,” Marc said. 

Timothée shrugged. “I do not know how,” he said. He plucked a grape from his plate and began to eat it. “I am the same, I suppose.” 

“No, you are not the same,” Marc said. “My son despised practicing piano. But now you willingly play it. And my son did not have hair down to his shoulders—” He tickled Timothée’s neck, and Timothée shrunk away from him with a giggle. “Something about you has changed.” 

“I am a man now, Father,” Timothée said. “I am not a little boy.” 

“Have you found a suitor?” Marc asked. 

“No,” Timothée said simply. “I do not have the courage for that.” 

“You have plenty of courage,” Marc said. “One day, you will meet a lady that completely takes your breath away. You will have the courage then.” 

Timothée nodded. He took a deep breath, then said, “A lot has happened in these past years. You must not judge me harshly for the decisions I have made. Most of them, I was forced to make.” He paused and gauged his father’s expression, which was one of curiosity. “I was sixteen, and a man… Louis… forced me into his bed. I did not consent, but he… He was very violent and rude to me. But that is the money that you have; I told you that it is part of my paycheck, but it is my whole paycheck and then some. Louis pays me to keep quiet about our affair. It ended a year ago. Then, several months ago, a Russian came to court. Armand. He is the heir to the Russian throne. He was taken with me immediately and… I went to work for him for the summer, and a relationship blossomed. We talked of me becoming his royal mistress, and he even said that he would change his church’s doctrine to allow us to get married. But his wife was not happy with our affair, and I ended it.” 

Marc laid his hand on Timothée’s arm. “To start,” he began. “Pauline has sent me letters all summer. I knew what happened with you and His Majesty, as well as you and His Grace. Know that I am not angry or upset at these unions, but that I am worried about you. You are so young, just a boy, and such follies have hurt you. I wish that I could protect you from these men.” 

“Thank you, Father,” Timothée mumbled. “Pauline has not answered any of my letters. I am afraid that she hates me.” 

“Nonsense,” Marc said. “Your sister adores you. There is a good reason why she has not answered you.” 

Timothée sighed. “I do not want to return to Versailles,” he said. “I wish to stay with you.” 

“Maybe you could go work for the Russian,” Marc said. “Armand. If you love him, you should be with him.” 

“It is complicated, Father, but believe me— I cannot work for him,” Timothée said. “I cannot move to Moscow just to be with him. That is ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” Marc asked. “I moved from Lyon to be here with your mother. I did not know Italian, but I followed my love and my heart. I implore you to do the same.” 

“It is too late,” Timothée said. “Armie made his choice and I made mine.” He pushed a bit of his dinner around the plate, procrastinating finishing his food. He had been gaining weight under Armie’s care, but, if he were to work in the vineyard with his father, he would need to lose the weight. 

“Send him a letter,” Marc said. “Tell him how you feel. He might invite you to join his household once more.” 

Timothée sighed heavily. “But—” 

There was a sharp knock on the door of the house, and Timothée removed his napkin from his lap. “I will answer it,” he said. 

The door opened to reveal a messenger from Versailles that Timothée had interacted with a few times. His name was Tom and he was several years younger than Timothée. “I have an urgent letter from Versailles for Marc Chalamet,” Tom said. “Regarding his daughter, Pauline.” 

“I will deliver the letter for him,” Timothée said and took the envelope from Tom’s hands. “Tell Amira I said hello, won’t you?” 

The door closed, and Timothée returned to the dining room. “A letter for you,” Timothée said and passed it to his father. “Urgent, from Pauline.” 

Marc opened the envelope and quickly unfolded it, and he took a few long moments to read the letter. Timothée knew better than to read a letter addressed to someone else, so he waited patiently for his father to share. Regarding Pauline; she was probably getting a raise. 

Marc took a hefty drink of wine. “Pauline…” he began. His voice was quiet, and he looked at Timothée with despair in his eyes. 

“What did the letter say?” Timothée asked quickly. 

Marc passed him the letter, and Timothée read it quickly. The words were hard to read as Timothée’s eyes filled with tears, and a tear splashed down onto the page. “Pauline caught the plague,” Timothée whispered. He could not believe it. “My sister is dead.”


	10. Chapter 10

Timothée kept the curtains drawn in his room. He barely left the confines of his bed for a week, just weeping into his pillow and praying that it was a joke. Somebody had to be playing a joke on him. His sister, his best friend since the very beginning, could not be dead. He refused to believe it. 

Then, a week after the letter came, Timothée watched behind his hands as his father buried his sister next to his mother. He had found his darkest clothes and wore them, and he sobbed quietly at the mound of dirt. His sister. 

Timothée and his father sat outside next to the graves for hours. Timothée could not bring himself to say a single word, and he kept looking over at his father for guidance. He said nothing as well. 

Timothée quietly made dinner that night, and he sat across from his father. Timothée noticed how Marc ate nothing and kept staring at the wall behind Timothée, and Timothée finally said, “Father. You must eat.” 

Marc sighed and pushed out his chair. “I am going to bed,” he said softly. He kissed the top of Timothée’s head as he passed him, and Timothée turned in his seat. 

“Father,” Timothée said. He was incredulous. “Now? It is barely nighttime.” 

“I will see you in the morning, love,” Marc said, and he squeezed Timothée’s shoulder. 

“Father, wait,” Timothée began, but Marc was already gone. Timothée sat alone, staring at the place where his father had previously sat. A scowl overtook his face, and he shot up from his seat. He carried the plates into the kitchen and vowed to clean them up later, and he retrieved the bottle of wine that he had opened for that night. He took a long drink from it, some dribbling out onto the corner of his mouth, and he wiped his face with his arm. 

Timothée took a walk outside. He knew that there was a lake somewhere close to the house that he could visit, and he carried the bottle of wine with him. He was young and small, and that paired with how much he was drinking, meant that he was fully drunk by the time he got to the lake. He sat down unsteadily and pulled off his shoes, then dug his heel into the soft earth. He missed Pauline. He missed his mother. He missed Armie. An infinitesimal part of him missed Louis. Maybe it was not the man himself that he missed, but the mere act of sex that he missed. His heart was broken at the fact that he and Armie had never made love. He longed to have Armie in that way, but Armie had become devoted to his wife. He had no time for Timothée. 

Timothée took another drink from the bottle, and he leaned back to have his head against the grass. “What should I do?” He whispered in French. “Nobody wants me.” 

A breeze blew, and Timothée swore that he heard the faint whispers of, “I want you.” There was nobody around him, though, not a soul that was able to whisper to him that they wanted him. He glanced around him, trying to find somewhere that somebody could hide, and he found a voluminous tree a few meters away. He stood up and walked over to it, and his heart seized when he saw the pale pink fruits. They were hanging large and round from the tree— peach season was nearly over, and the tree seemed to throwing one last hurrah. Peaches. Armie. Timothée plucked a peach and held it tightly in his hand, trying to find a bruise or contusion of any kind that might mar its perfect skin. No such imperfection was found; virgin’s flesh. It was him. 

Timothée began to turn away from the tree, then stopped. There was a fluttering of paper. He turned back and, in the moonlight, saw a cream-colored paper tacked onto the tree with a small metal bar. Timothée pulled the paper down from the tree and held it up to shine it against the moonlight. He caught the first line— _My dearest peach_ — and he gasped and dropped the fruit in his hand. 

Armie’s handwriting. Armie’s nickname for him. Armie’s letter. Armie swirled around in Timothée’s mind, and he sat down on the ground to read the letter. 

_My dearest peach,_  
_There are so many things to say. I miss you and wish that you had returned to Moscow with me. I am reminded of you in every little thing I see— hell, I tried to read Plato yesterday and I could only think of you. I will not say things like I wish we had not ended our relationship because I am sure that you feel the same, and those kinds of things are left better unsaid._  
_The plague has swept through the palace in my absence, and my mother was thankfully spared. My brother has died. Many servants have died. My father is very sick. We have tried every remedy we can think of, but none seem to work. My father is slipping through my fingers like sand and it is difficult to watch it happen. My mother says that, within the week, I will be Tsar. Tsar Armand. That sounds so wrong. I have always wanted to be tsar, but seeing it in my future now scares me. I have no idea how to run an empire. I can read Plato and Machiavelli all I want, but nothing can prepare me for this. I am truly frightened._  
_Elizabeth did not come to Moscow with me. She went to England to her family. She sent me a letter this morning requesting a divorce. I understand her reasons, but it is difficult. I am to rule with no wife or mistress or anything of the sort._  
_I am presently so incredibly lost. I have been married since I was eighteen, and I am nearing on my twenty-eighth birthday. I do not know who I am without a lover. If you have any guidance for me, please alert me._  
_My love extends from Russia all the way to Italy. I hope that someday you will join me in Moscow. To be a servant, or a mistress, or even a husband._  
_All of my love,_  
_Armie._

Timothée put the paper down, and he reached out for the fallen peach. He took it into his palm and examined it. Armie has been there. Armie had tacked the letter to the tree. Where was he now? 

-

Armie was not surprised to find the quaint Italian villa. He had always imagined Timothée growing up in a house such as that with a sprawling vineyard behind it. 

He was sure that Timothée did not remember telling him, because it was one of the first conversations they had, but Timothée had told Armie where he had lived before Versailles. “Chalamet Vineyard,” he had said. “Very original name. We are in northern Italy, close to Bergamo, just under the _Orobe_.” He had practically given Armie step-by-step directions of how to find his home. Maybe that had been his intent. Timothée was far more clever than Armie gave him credit for. 

Armie had watched from the shadows as Timothée left the house, dressed in all black and carrying a wine bottle. He seemed distressed, and Armie wanted to run to him. He had business to conduct first before he could comfort Timothée. 

Armie knocked on the door of the house, and he adjusted his opulent outfit. He had lied in his letter: his father had passed by the time he got to Moscow, and he had been sworn in the day he arrived. He said that he had to leave Russia on ‘business’, and he came down to Italy with a small band of guards. The Tsar could not go anywhere without guards. He wore silk and velvet, perfectly tailored for his slim, lithe frame, his blond hair pulled away from his face in a fashion that was popular in Russia. No amount of nice clothing or gold jewelry could prepare him for the incoming discussion. 

The door opened to show a man that was very obviously Timothée’s father. “Yes?” He asked in Italian. 

“ _Signor_ Chalamet,” Armie began. The man was the same height as him; he was not used to that. “I am Armand Hammer, and I am here to—” 

“Son, Timothée is not here,” Marc said. “We fought, and he left. You just missed him.” 

“No, _Signor_ , you misunderstand,” Armie began. “I am here to talk with you. I am here to ask for Timothée’s hand.” 

Marc looked over Armie’s shoulder, and he said, “Come inside.” 

The inside of the house was warm and comfortable. Marc invited him to sit by the fireplace, and Armie began speaking. “I understand how unconventional this is,” he said. “You do not usually ask for the man's hand. But Timothée would make an excellent mistress. He is educated and can speak many languages, and he would fit right in with the court. There would never be an ill word spoken about him.” 

“You are Armie,” Marc said. “ _The_ Armie.” 

“He has spoken of me?” Armie asked. 

“He despises you quite a bit,” Marc said. “He said that you chose somebody else over him. You can understand why I am hesitant to grant you my son’s hand.” 

“I was a fool,” Armie said. “I knew that I loved him, but I was a fool to choose somebody else. Believe me, _signor_ , Timothée will live a good life with me.” 

“Your Grace,” Marc began. “How will your parents react to this union? Surely they cannot approve of two men.” 

“My father passed away due to the plague,” Armie said. “And my mother knows where my appetites lay. Not only that, but my first order of business was changing church doctrine to allow a marriage. However… It could not be changed. So I come, not asking for Timothée’s hand in marriage, but for his hand as my mistress.” 

“How can you change doctrine?” Marc asked slowly. “I thought only the head of the church could do that.” 

Armie shifted in his seat. “When my father passed, I took his role as tsar,” he explained. “The tsar is the head of the church in Russia.” 

Marc blinked once, and he said, “The Russian tsar is asking for my son’s hand to be his mistress. That is something I never thought would happen. What can you give Timothée that other suitors cannot give him?”

Armie sighed. “Honestly… I cannot give him much. I cannot give him children. I have money, but… There is not much I can give him. I can love him and appreciate him, and I can help put him through university. I can teach him countless things about politics but…” he sighed. “I have absolutely nothing for Timothée other than an open heart.” 

Marc was quiet. He examined Armie, the Russian royalty that sat in front of him, and he could only see Timothée’s smile, the same smile that would unknowingly flit across his lips when he spoke of Armie. He could see that Timothée was in love, and he could also plainly see that Armie was just as in love. “Have you had relations with Timothée?” Marc asked. 

“How do you mean, sir?” Armie asked. “I have kissed him, but not anything past that. The moment I realized that I wanted to marry him, I put that notion out of my head entirely, and I have not thought of it since.” 

“We are both men, we understand what that means,” Marc said. “I ask again: have you had relations with my son before this came about?” 

“I kissed him on several occasions,” Armie said. “And he has seen me undressed. I have touched him. But we have never made love. I kept his honor intact.” 

Marc nodded. “Good, good,” he said softly. “Armie… I give you my son’s hand.” 

Armie’s heart soared, and he said, “Thank you, sir. This means the world to me.” 

Just then, the front door opened with a bang, and Timothée stood in the doorway. He stared at Armie for a long moment, then slowly approached him. He reached out and touched Armie’s chest, and he said, “Why are you here?” 

Armie took Timothée’s hand and kissed his fingers. “Timothée,” he began. “You are so very dear to me. That is why I call you ‘dearest’. I was stupid to want anybody but you. My father passed away, and I am the Tsar. I could have asked you in the letter, but I needed to ask your father for permission first. What kind of gentleman would I be if I did not ask your father for his blessing?” 

“W-What did he say?” Timothée stammered. “Father?” 

Armie held Timothée’s face in his hands. “He said yes,” Armie said. “And I hope that you do the same.” 

“You are proposing?” Timothée gasped. “Armie!” 

“I am not proposing marriage,” Armie clarified. “The church would not allow the doctrine to change. However, I am asking for you to be my mistress. Will you say yes?”

“I will have to move to Moscow with you,” Timothée mumbled. “I am not sure I can live comfortably in Russia.” 

“I will make sure that you are comfortable,” Armie said. “I will do whatever I need to keep you. I am never letting you go ever again.” 

Timothée gaped for a moment. He wanted to say yes, but he was terrified of leaving his father and his home. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But I must be able to visit here whenever I please.” 

“Of course,” Armie said. “I love you, dearest.” 

Timothée smiled. “I love you too.”


	11. Chapter 11

The next days were a blur. Timothée was sad to leave his father, but Marc assured his son that he would be okay on his own. Armie and Timothée made good time to Moscow, and Armie warned him that it would be cold. It was not terrible, but it was far colder than Timothée was used to. 

Finally, Timothée got a moment to sit down and appreciate his circumstances. It was the first night in the palace, and Armie was off bathing before he slept. Timothée laid in the bed, surrounded by soft velvet coverings, and he thought about everything. The next day was the day where he had to sign the agreement that proclaimed him to be Armie’s royal mistress. He had read the agreement, and it stated that Timothée would have to please His Majesty in order for the money to flow. Timothée was open to doing that, but something about it being exchanged for money made him uneasy. Did that make him a prostitute? 

Armie entered the room, and Timothée sat up quickly. Armie wore only his undergarments, his hair still wet. He looked gorgeous. “Armie,” Timothée whispered. 

Armie heard him, because he looked over to the bed. “Now, dearest,” he began. “Why are you still dressed? It is time to sleep.” 

“I was just thinking,” Timothée began. “About the agreement. I am uneasy with it. It makes me out to be no better than a prostitute.” 

“Dearest,” Armie sighed. He approached the bed and pulled Timothée to sit on the edge so that he was in-between Timothée’s legs. “To be honest, that is what this position is. You are here for me to spoil. I am sorry that it makes you uneasy.” 

Timothée sighed. “I just do not want to be seen as your plaything,” he said. “I want to be a figure. I want to do something worthwhile during my time here.”

“I will find a way,” Armie said. He leaned down and softly kissed Timothée, and he whispered, “Are you sleeping with me tonight?” 

“Yes,” Timothée nodded. He shifted away from Armie and began to undress, but Armie stopped him. 

“I have a gift for you,” he said. He crossed the room to the desk that sat in the corner, and he retrieved a velvet box. “Your necklace broke, so I had a new one made for you.” He offered it to Timothée, who took it gently. 

This necklace was made of silver and hung close to his neck, like the necklaces that the French queen wore that seemed to choke her. It had emeralds placed in it, and there was an engraving in this one as well: A.H+T.C. It was small and barely legible, but it warmed Timothée’s heart to know that it was there. “This is gorgeous,” Timothée said. “Will you put it on me?” 

Timothée turned to allow Armie better access, and Armie looped the necklace around his thin neck. Timothée held his hair back, and he jumped when Armie kissed his neck. Finally, the necklace was on, and Timothée gently touched the jewels. “It is beautiful, Armie,” he whispered. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Armie said. He kissed Timothée’s neck again, then reached around and carefully undid the ties to his shirt. It slipped off of Timothée’s golden shoulder, and Armie kissed that next. 

“Armie,” Timothée said quickly. “Do you intend to…?” 

“Yes,” Armie said. “I have waited for eight long weeks. I do intend to make love to you tonight.” 

Timothée let out a breath. He turned back around to face Armie, and he softly kissed his lips. He helped Armie take off his clothes, and his heart was beating quickly as Armie fully undressed. Soon, they were both naked. The candlelight cast a golden glow on Armie, and Timothée cracked a smile. “First a King, now a Tsar,” he giggled. “What is next? The American president?” 

“I hope not,” Armie growled playfully, and he dove in to kiss Timothée’s neck. His hands slipped down Timothée’s body to his legs, and he wrapped them around his broad waist. 

They moved as one unit, gasping and moaning. Armie controlled himself and promised that, one day, he would be able to be rough with Timothée, but that day would be gentle and loving. Timothée looked gorgeous with his curls splayed out on the pillow and his pink mouth open. His eyes were closed, and Armie despised that. “Open your eyes, dearest,” he whispered. “Look at your lover.” 

Timothée slowly opened his eyes, and Armie saw that they were blown out and wide. He was in pleasure. He was in love. Armie kissed his mouth hungrily, wanting to completely devour Timothée, and Timothée sunk his fingernails into Armie’s back. Armie fell more and more in love with Timothée with each moan that he gave out, and soon his heart was bursting with adoration. 

Sweat poured from their bodies and saturated the bed, and Armie licked the salt from Timothée’s neck. He could feel himself turning more animalistic with each passing moment, and he hoped that it did not scare Timothée. 

Armie could tell that Timothée was close in the way that his thin legs wrapped around Armie’s waist and he dug his heel into Armie’s buttocks. His chest was heaving and his back was arched, and he had successfully forgotten English and moved entirely into exclaiming in French. That was exactly what Armie had wanted: he wanted Timothée to forget everything except for his name. Timothée breathed his name in his beautiful accent over and over, and he finally came with a cry. 

By the end of it, Armie’s knees were rubbed raw and he was more breathless than he had ever been before. But it was okay. He had this golden god in his bed, dressed in expensive jewels and a satisfied smile. Timothée’s body was gorgeous: thin but strong, limber extremities, and— Armie had to admit— his ass was amazing. Timothée’s pink mouth was open as he panted, and he pulled Armie down for one more languid kiss. Armie pushed his tongue into Timothée’s mouth as they kissed, and Timothée pushed him away slightly. “ _Lent et doux_ ,” he whispered. Slow and gentle. “ _Lent et doux_ , Armie.” Their kisses turned slow, no open mouths, and Timothée began to smile. He was happy. After years and years of misfortune, he was finally happy. 

“What’re you smiling at, love?” Armie asked. 

Timothée shook his head. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Your Majesty.” 

Armie helped Timothée clean up, and they settled down in bed. Timothée had his copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ with him that he attempted to read by candlelight, but he became distracted when he saw Armie pull out a piece a paper and begin to fold it. “What is that?” Timothée asked. 

“In Japan,” Armie began. “There is an art form where one folds paper to make sculptures. I learned how to make several things, including…” He paused and finalized a fold, and held it up to Timothée. “A love heart. For you to mark your page with, so you can always have my love with you, even when we are apart.” 

Timothée looked down at the paper heart, and he inserted it into his book before closing it. “Why do you love me so?” He asked. “I am not special, by any means. I am rather ordinary.” 

“Nonsense, dearest,” Armie said. “After all, I call you ‘dearest’ for a reason. I love you more than I have ever loved anything. I love your freckles and the moles on your back, I love your belly, I love your neck and shoulders and even those little knees. Dearest, I love your hair. If you were to ever cut it, it would be a national tragedy. Your eyes are breathtaking, and your nose is very sweet. Your lips remind me of a peach, plump and sweet and begging for me. I love how you devour every book you can lay your hands on, and I love how you can talk for hours about philosophy. I love how your favorite philosopher is Plato. I love how you like red wine over white wine. I love how you must always be holding me as we sleep, even if you are just holding my hand. I love the way you look when you are bathing, or when you are eating, or when you are telling me a story. I thought that you were a prince when we first met, and, even though I know that it is not true, I still refer to you as my prince. My lovely little prince.” He paused to kiss Timothée’s hand, and he whispered, “I will love you until the end of my time and past that. My love will exist when this universe ends, and when a new one begins. When we die, our love will move on to a new couple, and they will live in the harmony that we do.” 

“Like reincarnation?” Timothée asked. 

“Exactly,” Armie said. “We must live in love and harmony if that new couple shall be happy.” 

Timothée chuckled. “You are such a fool,” he whispered. 

“I am only foolish for you, dearest,” Armie whispered, and he kissed Timothée softly. 

-

The next day started with Timothée planting a kiss on Armie’s lips. Armie was groggy as he sat down for breakfast, and his dearest’s kiss did little to wake him. “Good morning, _Majesté_ ,” Timothée said cheerfully and playfully bowed in front of Armie. “Would you like tea?” 

“I would,” Armie said as he sat down, and he pulled Timothée down for a kiss. “Maybe a little sugar as well.” 

“Armand,” his mother snapped. “Not at the table, please.” 

“Yes, Armie, wherever have your manners gone?” Timothée asked, and Armie rolled his eyes. 

“Is there a certain occasion that is responsible for your cheerfulness?” Armie asked as a servant brought up a cup of tea. 

Timothée looked incredulously to Armie’s mother. “He does not remember,” he giggled. “It is your birthday, Armie. How could you not remember your birthday?” 

Armie rubbed his face. “I am too old to care about my birthday,” he mumbled and sipped his tea. 

“Nonsense,” Timothée said. He sat down next to Armie and began to spread butter onto a piece of bread. “I have a present for you.” 

“Do you?” Armie asked. 

Timothée pulled a set of folded papers from his jacket pocket, and he passed them to Armie. The Tsar unfolded the papers and read through them, recognizing them as the mistress agreement that Timothée had been hesitant to sign. At the bottom of the last page, in neat cursive, was a signature that read _Timothée Chalamet_ with a small heart dotting the ‘i’. Armie looked up at Timothée and saw that he was smiling gently, and Armie reached out for his hand. “Thank you for this,” he said. “I will cherish it.” 

Timothée smiled wider, and he passed a piece of buttered bread to Armie. “How is the divorce coming?” He asked. 

“Nearly done,” Armie said. “When the Tsar says that he wants a divorce, people are not keen on disputing him. They have worked quickly.” 

“Fantastic,” Timothée said. He looked at Armie’s mother again, then smiled. “Oh, goodness, I cannot wait. I have another present for you.” He stood up and took Armie’s hand, and he pulled him through the palace out to the garden. There, Timothée guided him to a mound of dirt with a peach nestled into it. “I planted this tree for you. Peaches. So that you will always have me when I am not here.” 

Armie bent down to retrieve the peach, and he brushed the soft earth off of it. It was a perfect virgin peach, with just one flaw: a single bruise. 

“It is me,” Timothée added quickly. “Marred only by you. Not marred, but… Changed, only by you.” 

Armie turned to Timothée and swept him up into his arms. “I am the luckiest man to ever exist,” he said and kissed Timothée. “Will you eat this peach for me?” 

Timothée laughed. “If you will recall, Your Majesty, I will not eat a Russian’s peach.” 

“I very much recall that,” Armie said. “But I also recall you saying something about how you are an Italian, and that is false.” 

“Russians jump to conclusions, then?” Timothée asked. 

“Just eat this, will you?” Armie asked. 

Timothée smiled and took the peach, and he took a small bite from it. His lips became glossy with the nectar, and his pink tongue darted out to taste it. He smiled at Armie, and he asked, “You would love to kiss me right now, yes?” 

“Take another bite,” Armie told him. 

Timothée did as he was told, taking more of the peach into his mouth. Nectar dribbled down his chin, and Armie kissed his face to clean him up. When Timothée swallowed down the fruit, Armie kissed him softly, his hands skating up to thread into Timothée’s hair. He tasted just like the peach.


	12. Chapter 12

“Dearest, I have a surprise for you,” Armie began. 

“What is it?” Timothée asked. The wind howled outside the window, and just the thought of the cold snow made Timothée pull his robe closer around his body. 

“I just received word that Louis and Marie are hosting a holiday party,” Armie said. He got up from his desk and crossed to where Timothée sat in front of the fire. “Would you like to go?” 

“I do not know,” Timothée mumbled. “If I go, I will have to see Louis. I am not sure I want to do that at Christmas.” 

“You will get to see Amira,” Armie offered. “All of your friends back at the palace. I will have an outfit made for you, all of the best velvet and lace and silk. A festive crown of mulberry leaves for your curls. And, if you do see Louis, you can show him how much better off you are without him. How much better your life is with me.” 

Timothée looked at where Armie was knelt before his chair. “If we go,” he started. “I must not be left alone with him. He will not dance with me, he will not accompany me to get a drink. You will be with me at all times. I am… I am afraid of what he would do if we were alone.” 

“I will be with you the whole time,” Armie whispered. “Louis will never bother you again.” 

Timothée nodded. “Then I will go.” 

The outfit came in several weeks later. The shirt was made of velvet with lace sleeves that extended over his pale hands, the pants tight to his legs. Everything was a festive dark red that stood out against Timothée’s skin. There were several adornments with the outfit as well: silver rings to match the necklace that Timothée wore every day, and a longer, beaded necklace that hung at his stomach, with a crown of mulberry leaves threaded together that fit perfectly on top of Timothée’s curls and pushed them away from his face. Finally able to see Timothée’s ears, Armie commissioned a small set of diamond earrings to be made for him, and Timothée smiled when he saw the jewelry. “This is amazing,” he whispered. “But my ears are not pierced.” That was righted within a few days by Armie’s mother. Timothée took to wear the earrings every day, and he liked watching them glitter in the candlelight. 

Finally, the day of the ball came. The duo had traveled for nearly a week to reach Versailles, and Timothée was fixing his crown as they pulled up. “One last thing, dearest,” Armie said, and withdrew a silver pot and a tube from his jacket pocket. He too wore dark red, gold trimmings along the jacket to show his status. He gave the presents to Timothée, who slowly opened them. 

He let out a squeal. “Makeup!” He cried. “You remembered!” In the pot was a black ink that would coat his eyelashes, and the tube held a dark lipstick that matched the color of his outfit. 

“I remember everything, dearest,” Armie said. He leaned forward and kissed Timothée’s lips, and Timothée sank his hands into Armie’s hair and tugged him closer. Armie smiled into the kiss and he eventually pulled away, and he watched Timothée do his makeup in the reflection of the window. He looked even more gorgeous with the dark lips and long eyelashes, and Armie kissed him again. “You look stunning.” 

The hall was lively, music playing and people laughing and drinking and being merry. Armie immediately put his arm around Timothée’s waist and hugged him tightly to his body, and Timothée breathlessly chuckled. “Is something the matter?” He asked. 

“He has already spotted you,” Armie whispered. His eyes were fixed on somebody at the far end of the hall, and Timothée looked at Armie’s face. 

“I can handle myself, Armie,” Timothée hissed. “Just do not let him be alone with me. I can do everything else.” 

Armie looked down at his dearest, and he looked back up. The King was slowly crossing the room to them, and Armie focused back on Timothée. “Would you like to dance?” Armie asked. 

Timothée fluttered his gorgeous eyelashes. “You’re much too tall for me to dance with you,” he laughed. 

Armie smiled and wrapped his arms around Timothée’s waist, and he lifted him up to match their heights. Timothée chuckled and kissed Armie, and one leg coiled around Armie’s waist. “Oh?” Armie asked. 

“The Spanish dance like this often,” Timothée said. “It is very sensual.” 

Armie smiled and rested his hand on Timothée’s thigh. “You are gorgeous,” he whispered and kissed Timothée’s lips softly. “Let us be decent for now.” 

Timothée rolled his eyes and removed his leg, and he stood on top of Armie’s feet in an effort to become taller. Armie smiled and began to sway to the music, and Timothée buried his face in Armie’s throat. He sighed contently, and Armie kissed his hair. 

“Armand!” A booming voice laughed, and Armie looked over to see the French King standing there. “Congratulations on your new status.” 

“Louis,” Armie smiled and shook his hand. He kept a firm arm around Timothée, and he added, “How is your dear Marie?” 

“She is well,” Louis said. “And Elizabeth?” 

“I would not know,” Armie said. “We divorced. I assume that she is well, though.” 

“Oh goodness, what brought that?” Louis asked. “And who is this sweet tart on your arm?” 

Timothée flustered. Louis had called him a tart. He saw that Armie did not like that as well, because he set his jaw tightly. “We had some differences,” Armie said, trying to stay cordial to the party host. “And this is my mistress, Timothée Chalamet.” 

Louis smiled at Timothée. “Dear Timothée,” He said. “We have missed your presence here at Versailles. Will you ever come back to us?” 

“I am afraid not,” Timothée said. “I am rather happy in Moscow with Armand. And now that my sister is not here, there is nothing for me.” 

“Of course,” Louis nodded. “Well, he seems to treat you well: nice jewelry and expensive clothes. Even makeup. I see that has not changed. Do you remember that? Your lipstick was a bit redder then. And it was smeared.”

Armie’s hand became tight on Timothée’s waist. “That is lovely,” he mumbled with a tight jaw. “Dearest, would you like wine?” 

“Yes,” Timothée gasped. “Yes, lots of wine.” 

Armie began to track down some drinks, intending to bring Timothée with him, then Louis said, “Yes, go take care of him. Timothée, will you join me in a dance?” 

“Umm…” Timothée began. “Armand? Red wine?” 

“Timothée!” Armie snapped. 

“I will be okay,” Timothée told him. 

“You keep him on such a short leash, Armand,” Louis said. “He is just a boy, let him have a little fun.” 

Armie glared at Louis, and he said, “Of course. But only one dance.” 

“I swear,” Louis said, then whisked Timothée to the dance floor. Timothée was quiet, afraid to speak, then Louis said, “Is he always that controlling?” 

“No,” Timothée said. “It is only when there are threats.” 

“Threats?” Louis repeated and tugged Timothée closed so that their chests touched. “Like what?” 

“Like you,” Timothée said quickly. “I think he is afraid that I will go back to you.” 

“Is there any chance?” Louis asked with a lilt in his voice. 

“None,” Timothée said firmly. “Armand treats me well. Much better than you did.” 

“Yes, I never bought you diamonds,” Louis said and pushed Timothée’s hair behind his ear. “But how many times has he made love to you? That is the important part. Is he good? Better than me?” 

Timothée’s eyebrows fell close over his eyes. “ _Anybody_ is better than you,” he spat. “Armand does not force me into his bed. He does not force me to dress like a woman or keep our affair a secret. Yes, he buys me things, but he does it to show his appreciation for me. Louis, there is a very good reason that I am choosing to live with Armand.” 

“Which is?” Louis asked. 

“I love him,” Timothée said. “And I know that, for once in my life, the man that I love also loves me. You do realize that you broke my heart, yes? I was young and… You shaped me. But it does not matter anymore.” 

Louis gave a little grunt. “Interesting,” He said. “And your Armand knows of your full history?” 

“What does that mean?” Timothée asked with a quirked eyebrow. 

“I know the goings-on of the servants in my palace,” Louis said. “There is a very good reason that you were called the prince of Versailles. And it was not because of your relationship with me. Princes must establish relationships with many people, however… Intimate they are.” 

Timothée stepped away. “I know what you are implying, Your Majesty, and I have to object! I have never done anything of the sort!” 

A warm hand graced Timothée’s shoulder and Armie was suddenly towering over Louis. “What?” He asked. His accent was suddenly very thick, and Timothée could see a clear rage in his blue eyes. 

“You have to be aware of the things that your mistress has done,” Louis said. “He is _un putain_.” 

Armie pushed Timothée away, and he roughly grabbed the collar of Louis’s jacket. “Would you like to repeat that, _Your Majesty_?” He seethed. His voice dripped with disdain on the title, and Timothée became afraid of Armie. He had never seen Armie scorned before, and it frightened him. 

“Your boy,” Louis said. “Is a whore. He will open his legs for any man that has money, you should have learned this very early on. Why, is that not the reason he stepped into your bedroom in the first place? Was it the same as with me? Was he wearing nothing? Was he begging for a kiss? Did he open his legs and expose himself to you like a woman in a brothel?” 

Tears fell from Timothée’s eyes. He wanted to run away. He could not take everybody watching them yelling. He tried to take hold of Armie, but Armie pushed him away. 

“Did not happen!” Armie yelled. “You gave him drink and forced him into bed! He tried to leave but you kept him there like hostage! He was wearing nothing because you tore clothes! He did not open his legs for you, you forced them open! He screamed, and cried, and he bled! You made him bleed, Louis! You hurt him! No ill words about mistress shall ever come from lips again. If I hear even one word about how ‘impure’ Timothée is, I will not hesitate to march entire army here and force you to retract words. Do you understand that?” 

“Do you think I am afraid of you?” Louis laughed. “Not only are you impulsive, but you are stupid!” 

Timothée knew Armie well enough to know when he was going to act rashly, and he saw the flash of darkness cross his eyes. “Armie—” He began, but Armie pushed Louis away and gathered Timothée in his arms, and he kissed him deeply. The hall gasped, and Armie tugged Timothée closer very forcefully so that their hips were touching. 

The kiss broke, and Timothée took a deep breath. Everything had left his head. He could only breath: “Armie.” 

“He is mine, do you understand that?” Armie spat through gritted teeth to the monarch. “Not yours. _Mine_.”


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading this! I really enjoyed writing it! please enjoy the last chapter!

“Alright, class,” the professor began. “Today we will start our first unit of the year. We’ve got a lot to unpack here, so let’s just go ahead and start.”

Elio sighed. His father had instilled a love of history in him, but he knew that somehow it would get ruined by his professor. Stupid, perfect Dr. Oliver Marin. With his stupid blond hair and stupid blue eyes and beautiful posture and— _Shit, _Elio thought. _I might be in love with my classical history professor.___

____

“So, I hope you guys did the reading, which was really just a list of maybe ten people," Oliver said. "You didn’t have to research them or anything, just had to be familiar with the names. Who can give me a name that was on the list?” 

____

“Prince Eugene of Savoy,” a girl said. 

____

“Yeah, yeah, he was on there,” Oliver said. 

____

“Gottfried von Bismarck.”

____

“Totally, he was there,” Oliver said with a smile. “How about a certain Russian?” He looked at Elio and gave a small smile. 

____

“Armand of Moscow,” Elio said. 

____

“Yep, that’s who I was looking for,” Oliver said. “Armand of Moscow, and Prince Eugene, and Gottfried von Bismarck. What do all of these guys have in common?” 

____

“Aristocrats?” Someone asked. 

____

“Yeah, they’re all aristocrats,” Oliver said. “What else?” 

____

Elio sighed. “They were gay.” 

____

“Yep!” Oliver exclaimed. “Every guy on that list had documented homosexual tendencies. That’ll be our first unit. So, get out your computers, we’re talking about Armand of Moscow today. 

____

“Armand of Moscow lived in the eighteenth century, from 1752 to 1831. He lived to be eighty, which was pretty old for that time period,” Oliver began. “His father was Mikhail of Moscow, the Tsar. When Armand was twenty-seven, a plague hit the palace and his father and brother died, and he was sworn in as Tsar. He had been married to a British woman for about ten years, then he met a guy named Timothée a few months before he was sworn in. Timothée was Franco-Italian, and he was eighteen when the relationship began. Also at eighteen, he was fluent in three languages— French, Italian, and English. In the next few years of his life, he learned Russian and Spanish, and he might have been able to speak Japanese. He was a pretty smart guy. 

____

“We’re lucky that Armand and Timothée were such romantics. They wrote weekly letters to each other, declaring their love for each other, and Timothée saved every letter. When he died, the letters were given to Armand’s children, and they now sit in a Russian history museum. I’ve seen them, and they’re pretty cool-looking.” 

____

Oliver flicked on the projector, and he ran to the back of the room and turned off the lights. A piece of paper cropped up onscreen, a scanned-in image of one of the letters. “Timothée wrote this letter to Armand on his thirtieth birthday,” Oliver said. “He said that he ‘worships’ Armie— he called his lover Armie— ‘in the way that a nun worships God’. He gets a little risqué for the time period here, and he said that Armie was ‘like an animal’ and that he was the ‘best lover' that he had ever had. We’ll come back to Timothée’s love life in a minute.” 

____

Oliver went back to the front of the class, and the projector shined its light on his face. “Armie did a lot for his country. He started an institute to teach people how to read and write— illiteracy was a big problem in Russia— and he tried to reform the Russian Orthodox Church to allow gay marriage. The church nipped that in the bud, and they’re still kinda hesitant to allow that. But he was really progressive! He was an advocate for abolition and it’s said that, later in his life— maybe forties— he retired all of his servants, but compensated them with retirement funds. He had no slaves or servants, and his children grew up dependent on themselves. Then, ya know, he died and an outsider became tsar and reversed a bunch of stuff that Armie had done. What a dick.” 

____

Elio snuffed out a laugh. 

____

“He hired a woman to his royal council, which was a first,” Oliver said. “He hired an African man to his staff. That was a first, too. His mother was Jewish, and, while Armie didn’t practice Judaism, he observed many of the holidays in his mother’s honor. The Hanukkah celebrations were pretty lively. And, as a Jew, I wish that I had been able to see that in person. 

____

“Now, we gotta talk about Timothée and his life and all,” Oliver said. “It gets pretty rough, so buckle up. Timothée was eighteen when he started his affair with Armie, but he had his first partner when he was sixteen. Guess who?” 

____

The class didn't answer, and Oliver looked around at them. “Here’s a hint: Timothée worked as a servant at Versailles for a period in his life.” 

____

More silence. 

____

“King Louis XVI,” Oliver said finally. “Timothée was kinda forced into this relationship with Louis. We can’t tell if there were monetary factors to this relationship or if Louis was just a big pedo or what, but we know that he forced Timothée to do stuff like dressing in drag. Imagine that: being sixteen— a damn sophomore in high school— and being in a pretty heavy sexual relationship with the King. That’s, like… That’s crazy. The relationship ended when Timothée was seventeen, and then he was eighteen when his whole affair with Armie began. It was a weird age gap, but age gaps weren’t a thing back then— you loved who you loved. Except if they were underage. But even now, the age of consent in France is only fifteen, so I guess Louis wasn’t as big a pedophile as he seems. Still, I’m not sure that I’d go after a teenager.” 

____

Something about that hurt Elio. He couldn't place why. 

____

“Now, earlier, I said that we were lucky that these two lovebirds were romantics,” Oliver said. “Because now we have a detailed, weekly view of their lives. You could see that Armie was infatuated with Timothée from the beginning, and his adoration only grew as they got older. They had a kind of romance that was very loving but also joking. In one letter, Timothée called Armie a ‘ _homme bâtard puant_ ’. Anybody know what that translates to?”

____

Elio began to laugh. _Homme bâtard puant._ That was pretty funny to him. He could only imagine calling his loving boyfriend of sixty years that. 

____

“Mr. Perlman?” Oliver asked. “Do you know?” 

____

“It’s French for ‘stinky bastard man’,” Elio giggled. “That’s pretty funny.” 

____

“Yeah, it’s funny,” Oliver smiled. “They made fun of each other relentlessly. There’s a story that, before Armie got rid of his servants, one caught Armie tackling Timothée to the ground and tickling him. And the most famous story: the ten dozen roses for Timothée’s twentieth birthday. The juxtaposition of loving and joking is exactly what everybody searches for. They were the perfect romance.” 

____

Oliver fiddled with his computer for a moment, then the slide changed to a painting of a man with dark, curling hair and hazel eyes. He wore a choker necklace made of silver, diamonds, and emeralds, and he was dressed in all white with a rose behind his ear. “This is Timothée,” Oliver said. “He was twenty-one here. Notice the white clothing. Who can tell me who mainly wore white in eighteenth-century Europe?” 

____

“Brides,” Elio said. “Pure people or virgins or something like that.” 

____

“Yeah,” Oliver said. “So, we can assume here that Timothée had a reputation of being pure and virginal, despite having had sex with several prominent figures in European history. Armie made sure that Timothée was seen as very pure; they both seemed pretty eager to put Timothée's past behind him. And the rose there in his hair is from his birthday gift. There’s a story about how Timothée bathed with the roses, and everybody that met him said that he smelled of roses and honey-wine. That’s not too bad, huh? And that necklace there was given to him by— guess who?— Armie. It was silver, diamonds, and emeralds, and cost almost fifteen-thousand dollars to make in modern, American money. Timothée wore it everyday until the day he died, and he was buried wearing it.” 

____

The next picture was of a tall, blond man dressed in red. “This is Armand of Moscow around the time he was sworn in as Tsar,” Oliver said. “So he was maybe twenty-eight here. Notice his red jacket. This is Timothée’s doing as well. Timothée’s favorite color for Armie to wear was red, and he had several outfits made for him that were red. Maybe it was to honor his roses, I dunno, but it’s pretty cute. And now…” 

____

The next painting that was showed was Armie and Timothée together. Armie was sitting down with his lover in his lap, and he had his hand on Timothée’s face. They were looking deep into each other’s eyes. It was so obvious that they were in love. They were both shirtless, and Elio could see a small piercing on Timothée’s chest. “He’s got a piercing,” Elio said. “I’ve never noticed that before.” 

____

“They both had piercings,” Oliver said. “It was a small silver piercing through the left nipple. In Ancient Rome, a nipple piercing was seen as a sign of unity and togetherness. Soldiers in armies would get their nipples pierced. They got them done about three years after Timothee became his mistress. It was the closest they could get to being married. Armie barely wore his— some people think maybe he was allergic to it and some think he just didn’t wanna wear it— but Timothée wore his all the time. I think maybe he was allergic to it because this man would do anything to please his lover, and he would wear whatever weird shit Timothée wanted him to. Ya know how you can be easily manipulated when you’re in love. Not that Timothée manipulated him, but the point stands.” 

____

Before Oliver turned off the projector, he looked dead at Elio. He gave a little chuckle, then looked away. “What?” Elio asked. What was so funny about the way he looked?

____

“Look at Timothée for me, Mr. Perlman,” Oliver said. “Do you see any resemblance?” 

____

Dark, curly hair. Hazel eyes. Smooth, tan skin. Elio saw that Timothée even had a freckle on his jaw in the same place that Elio had one. “I look like him,” he said carefully. “You kinda look like Armie.” 

____

Oliver turned to the painting and examined it, and he brushed his hand over his chin. “I guess I do,” he said, and he chuckled. 

____

“Doc looks like Armie and Elio looks like Timothée,” a girl said. “That’s weird.” 

____

Elio nodded in agreement. Weird, indeed.

____


End file.
